Roman Holiday part two: Colosseum.

This was the only way Aston Villa were going to get to the venue of the Champions League final. Actually, I'm cheating a little bit; this pic was taken on a different day to the one I'm writing about.

For our first full day in the Eternal City, we decided to go to the Colosseum. So after Heather had opened her cards and prezzies (it was her birthday, after all) and we'd eaten our breakfast of weird bread with ham and and even weirder cheese, we left the hotel and went to Ciampino train station via the hotel's shuttle service, which is basically a pissed-off elderly Italian driving a people carrier.

We got on the train, which was a double-decker ( why don't we have those here in Blighty? I'm sick of paying through the nose for train tickets only to stand up all the way there. I better stop before I go off on one about public transport again!) and off we went into Rome.

As you go into Rome on the train, you notice three things. One, there's history all over the place. You'll see an apartment block, then a bit of ancient aquaduct, a football pitch, then a bit of ruined castle. The town planners have just built around what's left of Ancient Rome, whereas here, if we discover some Ancient Briton burial site, we'll let some archaeologists dig for a couple of weeks and then tell them to piss off and put a multi-storey car-park on top of it.

Two, there's loads of graffiti. All the bits that aren't ancient have got some toerag's tag on it. I'm used to seeing graffiti here in Brum, but it's everywhere in Rome. Then again, 'graffiti' is an Italian word, isn't it? I suppose it's not surprising then, if you think about it. There was an interesting piece of graffiti at the Colosseum, but I'll tell you about that in due course.

Three, it's fucking sweltering. Apparently, we'd arrived during a heatwave, and even the local Romans were moaning about the heat. There was a digital display on the train that tells you what the temperature was, and it was just shy of thirty-five degrees Celsius. I'm not good when it's too hot. I'm not a big fan of sweating. I'm also not a big fan of other people's sweat, especially when the train was as humid and as smelly as the inside of a Chelmsley Wood postman's sock on giro day.

After about twenty minutes in the sweatbox, we got off at Rome's Termini station and because the receptionist at the hotel told us isn't wasn't far, we decided to walk to the Colosseum. To be fair to the receptionist, she had given us a map, and it's not that far really. But to us, who don't know our way around and are very hot indeed, it seemed a fair old distance. Another thing about the inhabitants of Rome, is that they like to dawdle along. Put them on the road, in a vehicle, they go mental, but if you take them out of their car or off their Vespas and put them on a pavement and make them walk, they just saunter along. That's if there is a pavement, of course.

Anyway, after about half an hour of frequent stops to look at the map, and trying to navigate around five dawdling Italians walking side-by-side, we found the Colosseum. It's pretty hard to miss, actually. It is a very impressive building. I'm always amazed when I see something I've only ever seen in films or on telly with my own eyes. When you're there by the Colosseum, you're also surrounded by ancient arches and the remains of the Forum, and you do really get a sense of what ancient Rome must've been like.

Outside of the Colosseum, there's shitloads of tour groups, usually led by someone holding up a stick with a flag on it, there's also loads of blokes dressed up as gladiators or Roman centurions that charge you if you want your picture taken with them. Spoiling the effect, however, is the fact that most of these 'gladiators' are about sixty and smoking a roll-up. There's also quite a few market stalls, selling the usual shite you get at any tourist trap. I'm normally against giving any of these arseholes my money, but Heather talked me into going round the Colosseum with a tour guide, and I'm glad we did because our tour guide was a headcase.

So we sign up for a guided tour and we get given a little blue sticker to show that we've paid, and we join the rest of the punters who have also signed up for the tour. Along comes our guide, who looked a little bit like a younger Fabio Capello, holding what appeared to be a children's picture book about the Colosseum. Because our group wasn't as big as he'd like, he starts waffling on about any old shite to kill time while the group gets bigger.

He was an Italian, and a proud Roman. He began by asking us where we all came from. It was like a word association game for him. One of our group was from New Zealand (which didn't surprise me as looked exactly like Bret McKenzie from Flight Of The Conchords. We asked him about it later on and he said 'we all look alike in New Zealand, probably because we're all related.') When finding where he was from, the tour guide said 'Russell Crowe! Gladiator!'

When he found out where we were from, he replied 'Fish and chips!' and on he went, shouting out the national dish or footballers or film stars relating to the answer of the punter he'd just asked, until he came to one guy who was Dutch, and he was stymied, and decided to start the history lesson.

He started off telling us what it was like in Ancient Rome. About food, and orgies and slaves and the Vestal Virgins and about how badly women were treated. In fact, every time he mentioned any misogynistic acts the Romans did, he high-fived a man in the group in celebration. He then went on to tell us how clean the Romans were and are. He looked at us and said 'We Romans are so clean, when we invade your Breetan, we name a 'ole city 'Bath'! Not like French. French are Steenky, like skoonks!'

Then he told us that the films Ben-Hur and Gladiator are full of mistakes, most notably, both of those films show chariots being used in the Colosseum, which was never the case, as it was too small for any chariots. If you wanted chariots, you had to go the Circus Maximus, a much bigger venue down the road. (we had a look at the Circus Maximus later in the week, and it's just a vast green field these days, but you do realise how massive it must've been.)

For all his casual xenophobia and sexism, though, he knew his stuff and told us lost of interesting facts. For example, two million people were killed at the Colosseum. And of those two million, guess how many were Christians? Just one, Saint Ignatius. Apparently, persecution was big business, so all the Christians were murdered at the Circus Maximus instead, where there was a bigger audience to see it, as it had a capacity for 120,000 spectators. In fact, they set fire to Christians and used them as human torches so the spectators could see where they were going.

Also, the word Colosseum is an English name, coined by the Venerable Bede in the 9th Century. It's proper name is the Flavian Amphitheatre.

Another interesting fact is that the number four being represented by 'IV' in Roman numerals, came along after the empire became Christian, to save space and chiseller's carpal tunnels because it was 'IIII' when the Colosseum was built, as you can see when you look at the numbers above the gates into it.

Every time he gave us an interesting fact, he would back it up by showing us a picture from the children's book he was holding. At one point, he roped in one of the blokes dressed as a gladiator to help him. He looked authentic until his mobile phone went off. He fished it out of a little drawstring bag and proceeded to have a little chat. When he finished, he pointed to his phone and said 'Cleopatra'.

Anyway, after about half an hour of this, he'd got enough people for his group, and after a free photo-op with the gladiator, which I declined ,as he was far too tanned and good looking, and I'm always nervous around people holding swords, but lots of the other members of the group had their pictures taken with him, we were off into the Colosseum.

The first thing he pointed out to us after we got through the gates was a bit of ancient graffiti. An ancient Roman had carved a big phallus into one of the walls. 'See the penis?' he shouted. 'Look at the penis! Take picture of penis!' I hope he was referring to the graffiti, anyway. I'd hate to think he had a fetish for getting tourists to take a snap of his pudendum.

There was a middle-aged American couple in front of Heather and I, and the husband asked the tour guide 'Why's it so small?' The tour guide smiled and gave him a high-five.

You get an eerie feeling when you walk around the place, which isn't surprising, considering the amount of people killed there. This feeling was abated a little bit by the tour guide pointing out ancient bidets and saying ' Look! Arse-washers!'

So, we walk around for another forty minutes or so, looking around the place in the stifling heat, until we get down to where the fights actually took place. There's not much left of the floor now, but you can see where they had the lifts that elevated lions and other ferocious beasts into the arena. The tour guide pointed to a picture of a lion in his book, in case we'd all forgotten what the king of the jungle looked like. 'Lions are bastards,' he said. 'Capisce? BASTARDS!' and then he went on to explain how they had archers on standby should the lions decide to attack and eat the spectators. It was alright to eat the gladiator, but not the punters.

He then told us about the big crucifix that's there now, put there by some pope or other who came and blessed the place and prayed for the two million or so who died there. Like that's going to help them, seeing as all but one of them were pagans.

Afterwards, he took us to meet the other tour guide, who was taking us around the Palatine hills, but I won't dwell on her as she was informative, but a bit dull, but the area is lovely, and we came away, having looked, amongst other things, at the remains of the forum, well educated about ancient Rome, but also very sunburnt. And we'd been walking for miles. As soon as we got out, we headed for a pizza and a beer in a restaurant overlooking the Colosseum, and despite there being a whole boiled egg in the pizza, it had been a good day.

Roman Holiday, part one; Getting There.

It's been a while since I last posted, I know, but I've got a good excuse this time, as my girlfriend and I were in Italy for a good part of my hiatus. This was my first proper holiday in God knows how long, my girlfriend and I were going to celebrate our Birthdays in Rome (yep, our birthdays are in the same week. Weird, huh?) and I was looking forward to it immensely, but the main problem about Rome is the fact that it's abroad and you have to get on an aeroplane to get there. And you can't get there directly from Birmingham International Airport, either, you have to go to Heathrow, which is nearly a hundred miles away.

I'm not a big fan of flying. Don't get me wrong, I'm not afraid of it; I quite like the bit when you're actually up in the sky. I love looking down at the world from above, seeing coastlines and the tops of mountains and the topside of clouds. It's just a pity I can't sit in a window seat because I'm poor and can only afford to travel economy and therefore end up with my knees around my earholes because I have the audacity to be taller than six feet. Anyway, as I said, I enjoy the actual flying. What I don't enjoy is all the rigmarole you have to go through before you can actually get on the plane. All the checking in and security checks and putting all your bottles in plastic bags and all the general fucking about really gives me a cob-on. (That's a Brummie phrase meaning 'in a bit of a mood')

When you get on a bus or a train, do they ask you to take off your belt first? No. And recent events tell us that buses and trains are just as likely to get blown up by terrorists as planes are. The stuff they won't let people take on, either; Tweezers, for example. If anyone ever mounted a successful hijack armed with just a pair of tweezers, then they deserve the fucking plane, if you ask me. (Not that I had a pair of tweezers, by the way. Anyone who knows me well enough to inspect my eyebrows can testify to the fact that I don't use them!) Don't get me wrong, I know we need security, but there's a difference between security and paranoid hysteria.

So, anyway, we flew from the new Terminal Five, which looks like something out of Flash Gordon, but unfortunately without a bellowing Brian Blessed. Actually, it'd be cool to have him do the Tannoy announcements. You certainly wouldn't ignore them. Typically, as this is England, our flight was delayed for an hour and a bit, but after we got on, it was all fairly plain sailing. Or Plane-flying, if you will.

Two and a half hours later, we land at Fiumicino Airport, and I knew for sure we were in Rome as the woman who checked my passport looked like a Vogue model and I was surrounded by loads of nuns.(Sounds like a dream I once had.) These nuns weren't your normal, boring, black-and-white penguin types, these ones were all in white, except for their wimples, which were navy blue. I suspect these nuns were Tottenham supporters. (if they were indeed Spurs fans, I bet their faith has been sorely tested lately!) Anyway, I get through passport control with a minimum of fuss as I'm from the EU. My girlfriend, however, with her American passport, had to queue for ages with the rest of non-EU undesirables. However, this just meant I had to go and get our luggage, which, as is usual for me, were the penultimate bags to come out onto the belt.

We were picked up by an elderly taxi driver and taken on a half-hour walk to where his car was parked. We were staying in a hotel which was on the other side of Rome, in a town called Ciampino. The taxi driver couldn't find it, and spent a lot of the journey talking and swearing to himself in Italian. Now, I don't know if you've ever been to Rome, but one of the things about the place is that everyone there drives like an absolute nutcase. The speed limit is seen as just a rough guide and stuff like traffic lights and roadsigns are just there to make the roadside look a bit more interesting. It's like Death Race 2000. (RIP David Carradine, by the way. Surely, he should've learned from Kill Bill that the palm technique was dangerous?) The village we were staying in didn't have the big roads Rome does, it just had single-lane roads and dirt tracks and roads that share space with train tracks and no pavements, so sitting in the back of a taxi with a swearing taxi driver who's lost whilst everyone else is doing their level best to collide with you was a bit worrying.
Anyway, after a while, and probably more through luck than judgment, we got to where we were staying, and it was a lovely-looking place. It was an old farmhouse which had been converted into a few apartments. We checked in, dumped our bags and went for a night-time al-fresco dinner. I normally struggle to make any kind of decision, especially when picking from a menu, but the hotel's menu helped me on this score as it only had three dishes to choose from on it. Chicken, beef, or a plate of cheeses. A vegan would be fucked, basically. Anyway, I had the beef, Heather had the chicken and afterwards we drank and looked out over the lights of Rome in the distance. It wasn't the best meal we've ever had, but it was just what we needed.

(Right. I seem to have been typing for ages, and we've only just got there! Serves me right for going off on one about air travel. There's another five days of this shit yet, so I've decided to do it in episodes. Next one soon!)

Vote Septic!

Last weekend I was supposed to be at the Bristol Comic Expo but I never made it. Without going into too much detail, my girlfriend and I got to New Street station nice and early, but I had to get back earlier that night than originally planned, so I wanted to change the return train ticket. We found out that it would've cost seventy-five quid for both of us to get back a couple of hours earlier so we decided not to go, as seventy-five quid is a hell of a lot of money.
It's a shame, as it would've been nice to catch up with my old friends and collaborators, such as Andy Winter. Andy tells me that our book Septic Isle was his biggest seller over the weekend, which is nice to hear.

While we're on the subject of Septic Isle, it's that time of year when the Eagle Awards are looking for nominees. It's abit late this year, the results are normally announced at the Bristol Expo, and as that didn't happen, I thought they weren't going to happen at all this year, but they are, so it'd be nice if all of you went to the site (click on the link, or if that doesn't work, go to http://www.eagleawards.co.uk/) and nominated our book in the 'Favourite Black & White Comicbook - British' section. If you also wanted to nominate me (that's Mick Trimble, in case you'd forgotten!) as Favourite Newcomer Artist, and Andy Winter as favourite writer, then please be my guest.

I don't know if you've noticed, but I've put some subtle hints and dotted them around this post to help you make up your mind as to who to vote for. Hope it helps! Hurry up, though, you've only got until May 22nd (that's my birthday! All cards and prezzies gratefully received!) to get your nominations in. Cheers.

X Men Origins: Wiping Your Arse With Claws.

Last Saturday, my glamorous other half and I went to the pictures to see the new Wolverine movie. In the queue with us was a guy dressed as Wolverine. He had the hairstyle and the vest and some leather fingerless gloves with the claws built in. I would've called him a sad fucker but he might eviscerate me with said appendages. Why is it only comic-book movies that attract these people? (Actually, come to think of it, which I do, that's not true; people dress up as nuns when they go and see The Sound Of Music, don't they?) You don't see people turning up at, let's say, The Reader, dressed as a death camp commandant. I did once think that a load of people dressed up and acting like zombies were queing up to see Day Of The Dead, but I was mistaken, it's just what any queue at a Broad Street cinema looks like.
The film itself was okay, nothing special. They whizz through Wolvie's early life showing us snippets of what could've been a more interesting film than the one that was made. For example, they don't tell us how he got the name Logan, but they do tell us how he got his leather jacket. Some of the CGI was very shoddy, too. Despite a few interesting ideas and a standout action set-piece involving Logan fighting a helicopter, this film was generally a wasted opportunity.
However, my girlfriend thought it was great, as she's in love with Hugh Jackman, and as it is basically two hours of him running around with no shirt on, she was in movie heaven. (I've no issue with that, I do, however, have issues with Jackman's hair in this film; he no longer has that 'pointy ears' haircut that his comic book equivalent has, he's got some kind of long curtains thing going on. It just looks rubbish. I know it's supposed to be set in the seventies, but Logan has never struck me as being a fashion slave. They should've given him a pair of flares and a belted cardigan to complete the look.)

After the movie, as usual, my bladder was the size of a space hopper, so I went to the toilets, and in there was the guy dressed as Wolverine drying his hands under the hot air dryer. He still had the claws on. So, he must've had a wee with them on. That's taking a risk, if you ask me. It's a good job he didn't go for a number two. Imagine wiping yourself with those things on!

Anyway, if this movie is an indication of what the summer blockbusters are going to be like, it's going to be a dull summer.

Heather's going to see again on Monday with the girls from work. I'm obviously not the film's target audience.

Drawing, Vomiting, Woking.

It's been a while, I know. I'm sorry about the delay between posts. I usually blog when I've got some spare time to kill, but spare time's been a little thin on the ground just recently. But I've got a few minutes now, so I've decided to fill you all in as to what I've been up to.

My girlfriend and I spent Easter with her parents down in Woking, Surrey. It's quite posh down there. They get out of the bath to have a piss and everything. All the houses have names instead of numbers, and it must be a pain in the arse being a postman, having to remember which house is 'Acacia Lodge' or 'Riverside Manor' and totally bollocksing it up and delivering it to 'Clearview' instead. (If I could name my house, I'd call it something like 'Buggeroff' or 'Dunsodomisin', just to piss my neighbours off.)

Anyway, Woking is a nice place to visit. It was the birthplace of H.G. Wells, and they have a theatre there named after him, and about a hundred yards up the road from it is a cool statue of a tripod from War Of The Worlds and it's the kind of thing I wish we had more of up here in Birmingham. I mean, this is the place John Ronald Reuel Tolkien grew up, and do we have a statue of Gandalf? Do we buggery. Birmingham City Council seriously dropped a bollock in not aggressively advertising the city's links with Tolkien when the Lord Of The Rings movies were being released. New Zealand got all our tourists! What we do have is a statue of Tony Hancock, (who buggered off to Bournemouth when he was three) and some lame 'walk of fame' paving slabs on Broad Street which have 'Ozzy Osbourne', 'Jasper Carrott' and 'Noddy Holder' embossed on them and are frequently cordoned off because they become dangerously slippy when it rains. And it rains a lot here in Brum. (In fact,as I write, a big fucking thunderclap has just gone off above me, scaring the shit out of me, and now hailstones are raining down on us poor Brummies. It looks like Lenny Henry's paving stone is going to be cordoned off tomorrow.)

Anyway, back to Woking. If the tripod statue isn't weird enough, just up the road from that is a big silver-coloured fighter jet on a big pole as a piece of public art. I don't know why it's there or the significance of it, but it looks cool.

While I'm on the subject of public art, while we were there, we visited The Lightbox, a very smart art gallery where we looked at sculptures and where we also looked at an exhibition on the history of Woking, which told me stuff I already knew (Woking had the first Mosque in the U.K., I only knew that because it happened to be on the last The One Show I actually watched; Paul Weller and the MacLaren Formula One team is from there, too) and lots of stuff I didn't (Status Quo are from there! Woking's cemetery is the largest in Britain and the whole town was in fact intended to be, at one time, just one big graveyard to bury London's dead.) and generally, the Lightbox is a really nice place to go and spend some time.

Another thing I learned is that my girlfriend's parents are actually ninjas. There one minute, gone the next. We went on a drive around Surrey, stopping at points of interest, such as Guildford, which has a castle keep and the cathedral where they filmed The Omen, and all through the day, there were times when one of them (they were both dressed in black, as well) would just disappear into thin air. On the surface, they don't seem to be that nimble or agile, but it's just an act. Say the wrong thing, and the Sai would come out, quick as a flash, and pierce your neck. I'm only joking, of course, they're lovely people (I have to say that, I've got a sai up against my throat) but we did spend quite a lot of time looking for Heather's Mom or Dad at various points of the weekend.

That said, we had a lovely time down south. We had a posh Chinese meal and a lovely Easter breakfast which, because my girlfriend's parents are American, consisted of lots of pancakes, butter, maple syrup and bacon. Not very good for the arteries but it sure does taste good. We also spent a night drinking and playing 'Risk' with some of Heather's closest friends. I'm not a big fan of board games, but this was a good night because the Mick-Heather Axis managed to take over the world and win the game. Also that night, I discovered I knew quite a lot about Eighties pop music. It's frightening what useless facts are stored up in my noggin. Like I said, I don't really enjoy board games (I'm not really a competitive type of guy, I'm more of a 'let the wookiee win' person) but my girlfriend does, and it's nice for her to spend time with her friends and family, especially since she moved a hundred miles north because of some scruffy Brummie bloke.

I also had a week off work to spend some time with my daughters during the school holidays, but the time off was blighted by two factors: One, the weather was truly dreadful; torrential rain for three whole days, and when it got better factor number two kicked in: Stomach bug.

I spent two whole days pooing and spewing which wasn't very nice at all, and meant that me and my daughters were stuck indoors for most of their time here with me. Oh well, they had chocolate to munch on.

Heather and I went to see ...And You Will Know Us By The Trail Of Dead, a rock band that I really love (and I heartily recommend their new album The Century Of Self, it's excellent. Don't be put off by the band's name, they're not as horrible as they sound. Slayer, however, are.) and it was an excellent gig in a shitty small venue that stunk like the inside of a Chelmsley Wood postman's shoe after giro day, and one of the support bands Middle Class Rut, were also very good. It was a good night, spoiled by the fact that after we got home, my stomach bug (thought defeated) returned with a vengeance, possibly aggravated by either the horrible burger I'd eaten or the horrible beer I'd drunk, and I spent the rest of that night violently spewing my ring up. Not good. Don't worry, though, I'm fighting fit again now. Well, as fighting fit as I can be!

On the art front, there's not that much to report, really. I had an interesting email from a film director who wanted me to submit some art to him as he was looking for a storyboard artist for an interesting sounding Anglo-Italian horror movie. He'd emailed a few people, but he did sound very enthusiastic about the stuff of mine he'd seen. He sent me a brief consisting of images they'd like to see a picture of, so I picked the one about the antangonist of the movie hunting at night, drew it in a surprisingly quick time and sent it to him. Below is the drawing I did (click on it for a larger version):

The director liked it a lot. He warned me that there wasn't much money involved (it's a very low-budget movie) but I might get to go to Sicily, where they're going to shoot it. He asked for my phone number. I was feeling quite confident about getting the gig, but in the end, I didn't. Oh well. At least I got a cool picture for my portfolio out of it, even if I say so myself. (Note the sky; on the original, it's done with an ink wash, but my scanner decided to tipp-ex out big chunks of it. I kinda like the effect.) You win some, you lose some.

I also went to a play at my eldest daughter's school. My daughter wasn't in it, but a lot of her friends were, so we went, despite my general dislike of these things, as school plays are nearly always rubbish. Maybe my views on these things are coloured by my own experiences in school plays. I think my last major role was as 'J.R.' who was a cowboy in my primary school's version of Cinderella. I know, there isn't normally a cowboy in Cinderella. I like to think they created the role especially for me, because they saw a rugged John Wayne quality in me. Actually, they probably thought I was more of a Gabby Hayes type. I remember my dad watching it through the window because he didn't want to pay and watch it, the tight bastard. I had this really long monologue about my character's lineage, and I remember being absolutely petrified. I've been scared of public speaking ever since.
Anyway, if the play we went to the other night is anything to go by, school plays have changed a lot since the days when I went to school. It was set in a hospital, and it was a portmanteau involving lots of different playlets about visiting times. Some of it was comedy, and some of it was dramatic. Some of it was very inappropriate indeed for a school play. There was one scene where a visiting wife was struggling to get the top off a thermos flask for her severely injured husband and saying 'Oh, this is hard', when a nurse comes in and thinks, because of the angle she's looking at it from that the wife's giving her husband a blowjob and runs out all embarrassed. This is a SCHOOL play! Bloody hell!
Besides this, it was fairly enjoyable. Some of it was dull and boring, and some of the acting was shit, but mostly the performances were excellent, and I enjoyed it despite myself. If only it'd been shorter.

Anyway, I think you're all up to date now. I can tell you're all impressed about my exciting lifestyle. I'm off to put the binbags out now. Will all this excitement never end?

Memorabilia.

Last weekend, our good friends Jamie and Theresa travelled up from Southend-On-Sea to come and stay at our home here in The People's Republic Of The West Midlands. (If you read my blog regularly, you'll know Jamie, as he's the only one who leaves me any comments!)

It was Jamie's birthday on the Saturday (and might I say, he doesn't look bad for fifty! Only kidding, Jamie!), and after he opened his cards and presents, and still feeling the effects of the alcohol and Moroccan cuisine from the night before, Jamie and I headed out to the National Exhibition Centre for the Memorabilia show. His other half decided her time would be better spent mooching around Brum's shops, whilst my other half was at the theatre watching His Dark Materials with my eldest daughter.

We went to the NEC by train from the lovely, awe-inspiring New St. station, mostly because it's probably the quickest way of getting there, as it's only one stop, and the fact that parking at the NEC would cost at least eight quid. The problem with going to the NEC by train is that after you get off at Birmingham International, you think you're nearly there, but you're not. You're in a building that says it's the NEC, but it's a bloody long walk to the exhibition halls. You go up escalators, down escalators, down endless corridors, along several moving walkways until, about a week later (okay, I'm exaggerating slightly) you get to the exhibition halls. But that's not the end. The Memorabilia show was in hall 12, we were outside hall one, so we walk for another three days (I exaggerate again) until we get to our destination. If we weren't sure if it was the right place, the shitloads of blokes dressed up as stormtroopers and a couple of Jedi outside confirmed that this was indeed the Memorabilia show.

After being allowed to jump the queue because we were paying for our tickets with cash (Ten quid! Each! Bloody Nora!) we went into what was frankly a massive room stuffed to the gills with all sorts of cool stuff. One of the first things we saw was a toy stall, selling lots of stuff similar to the things I had as a kid for shocking amounts of money. All of it was still boxed, and you weren't allowed to pick any of it up. I might've mentioned before that I collect models of the Batmobile (I know, it's a sickness, but they make the windowsill in my sketching room look a lot cooler) and I saw a Batmobile I'd quite like. It was from the 70s, made by the Mego company for their 7" action figures of Batman and Robin (not included) to sit in. We asked how much it was, because none of the items had prices on them. Probably because a little sticky price tag might damage the precious packaging. Anyway, the stallholder gets out a little folder that had all the prices in it, looks it up and then tells us that the batmobile would cost me £195. That was about £190 over my limit, so we thanked him and moved along.

We also saw, from the side looking in, Robert Vaughn doing a Q&A session, and he's a lot smaller than I thought he would be. Quite old, too. It's amazing, though, how he's kept his hair colour even though he's well into his seventies. More on him later.

One of the things that bugs me about this kind of event (comics conventions included), and it's only a recent phenomena, is the amount of cosplayers that turn up. I hate cosplayers. I know they're essentially harmless and they're only having a bit of fun but they do my head in. I reckon they give the rest of us nerds a bad name. People look at them and think 'what a bunch of sad bastards', and think all of us geeks are like that. There was a group of about ten teenage boys all dressed up as Doctor Who. All of them were the David Tennant Doctor, except for one who must have read the email incorrectly and turned up as William Hartnell. A fat, Asian, William Hartnell. Still, at least he was the only one who stood out. I saw all those young lads, with their brown full length coats, brown suits, Converse trainers and their hair all spiked up and I was reminded of the crowd scene from Life Of Brian; "Yes, we're ALL individual!"

There were also quite a few very young teenage girls dressed in not much, including one girl of about fifteen wearing a revealing corset, and this kind of thing brings out the dad in me. I say things like 'I bet her dad doesn't know she's wearing that' and 'there's no way any of my kids are going out looking like that!' even though I know, deep down, that if my girls did want to go out like that, there's not really that much I could do to stop them. There is such a thing as freedom of expression in this country, despite all of my objections!

Also, it's very stupid going to these things dressing up as the thing you love. If you're dressed up as Anakin Skywalker, a Star Wars memorabilia dealer knows he can charge you a bit more because he know's you're a Star Wars nut and you'll pay it. I bet all the dealers with Doctor Who stuff rubbed their hands with glee the moment they saw the ten Tennants approaching them. Only under tens and the Fathers 4 Justice and those people who are paid to walk around these conventions dressed up are allowed to wear superhero or sci-fi costumes (I might make allowances for people press-ganged into going to a fancy dress party. I'm not a big fan of those, either!) the rest of you should stop. Really. Especially the ones that make their own costume out of bits of egg boxes and Lego. Honestly, it's like Paris Fashion Week for the blind and stupid.

Rant over.

The amount of stuff available here was amazing. If spare cash and spare space wasn't a problem I would've come home with shitloads of geeky stuff. Honestly, if you're a nerd like me, you would have had a field day looking at this cool stuff. There was some crappy junk as well, but it was mostly cool. Less cool, however, was the 'celebrities' charging you at least fifteen pounds for an autograph. Some of them are people the non-nerd has heard of (Stephanie Beacham, Robert Vaughn, Richard Briers-who was a bit of a weird choice, I can't really see loads of obsessed cosplaying fans turning up dressed in tweed and kilts asking him to sign their VHS copies of Monarch of The Glen, can you?) but a lot of them were 'third alien on the left' types from Star Wars and I don't think having the autograph from the guy who was 'Yak-Face' is worth fifteen quid, frankly. I'm not really sure whether these are actually who they say they are, anyway, considering that these people spent their moment of fame under shitloads of prosthetics. He could be lying and pretending he was Yak-Face, for all I know, just to get his hands on fifteen quid from a Star Wars freak who really should be old enough to know better.
Don't get me wrong, there were people there I would have liked to get autographs from. There were a few Bond alumni there, for example. There was Richard Kiel, the man mountain who played Jaws, who is absolutely fucking huge- he's probably wider across the shoulders than I am tall. It was sad to see his mobility scooter, though. I also would've liked Guy Hamilton's signature, as he directed Goldfinger, the quintessential 007 movie. (Interesting fact about Guy Hamilton: In the movie The Third Man, that famous shot where you see Harry Lime's shadow running away, that shadow actually belongs to Hamilton- who was Carol Reed's assistant director, because Orson Welles didn't bother showing up for filming that day, because he was a notorious pain in the arse and probably because the only running Welles ever did was away from the salad counter.) The thing is, if you ever happened to bump into these people in the pub, they'd probably give you an autograph for free (although it's unlikely Jaws ever drinks in Moseley, there are a few Yak-faces, though.) and that's the main reason I refuse to pay for it. The other main reason is I don't have that many spare fifteen quids at the moment! I was going to get George Lazenby to sign my picture (see last post) but he wasn't there, so stuff the lot of them.
Saying that, one of us did pay for an autograph, and it wasn't me. Jamie saw the bloke who plays PC Stamp from The Bill walk past us, and had a brainstorm. His dad is a big fan of the show, apparently, so Jamie thought it would be nice if he could get PC Stamp (don't know his real name, and I can't be arsed to Google it, either) to talk to his dad on the phone. Which he did, fair play to him, but the trouble is, he might be a well-known face on British TV, but he doesn't really have a distinctive voice like, for instance, Sean Connery, John Hurt or Michael Caine does. Jamie's dad didn't have a clue who it was that had phoned him up so the first five minutes of that phone call were really awkward. I don't know what was said on the other end, but I can imagine it was along the lines of 'Who the fuck is this?'
Anyway, when Jamie's dad realised who it was, the conversation went a bit more smoothly, but at one point, PC Stamp said to Jamie's dad something along the lines of 'Well, your son is going to buy you a nice signed photo for you' and from that moment on, Jamie felt obliged to buy a signed photo of a bloke from The Bill for fifteen pounds. He didn't really mind, it was a nice gift for his old man, after all, but I think Jamie, being a rabid Star Wars fan, would rather have spent that money on Yak-Face's autograph. I think I upset PC Stamp though, he asked if I'd got everything I'd came for, if I was enjoying it, the usual smalltalk, then for some reason, he sort of accused me of being a cosplayer. Probably on the basis that I was wearing a Silver Surfer T-shirt. Not only did he accuse me of being one of the things I hate most in the world, he suggested that I probably dress up as a superhero when I'm having sex with my girlfriend. I know he was only trying to be blokey and have a joke, but fucking hell, that's a bit much isn't it? I replied by asking him whether they let him keep his uniform (for sexual purposes) when he left The Bill.
"I haven't left, actually, but thanks for paying attention."
And that was the end of that conversation. Next to him was the German guy from Raiders Of The Lost Ark (another favourite movie of mine, but surely it's a favourite movie of everyone's.)whose face melted at the end, and I wanted to ask him about his appearance in the Ferrero Rocher 'Ambassador, you are spoiling us' advert, but I didn't have the courage so we went away and watched some wrestling instead.
Well, I say wrestling. It was a bit like wrestling. There was a ring, a referee and wrestlers, but it was all a bit, well, rubbish. For some reason, the wrestlers kept trying to get the crowd to clap along, but they didn't seem to realise that us Brummies don't really do audience participation. We have the attitude of 'I paid ten quid of my hard-earned cash to get in here, and you want me
to do your job for you? You entertain me! I don't ask you to come to my factory and polish my power press, do I?'
So there wasn't much clapping. Anyone who did clap along were either children, idiots or interlopers from beyond the Black Country. It was a bit like like wrestling used to be when I was a nipper- you know, World Of Sport and Kendo Nagasaki and Johnny Two Rivers and fat blokes with a woman's bathing costume on worn back to front, before we got slick, polished American wrestling shows imported to show us how it could be done if we could be bothered to put the effort in. To be fair, they were going for the American style of wrestling, the 'good guy' wrestlers had washboard stomachs and muscles (something the World Of Sport bunch couldn't be arsed with, they just bounced off ropes and belly-barged into someone with their beer guts) but the 'bad guy' was a bit weedy-looking and the actual bouts were unconvincing. I know wrestling is fixed, but you don't make it obvious. They were stamping on the floor when they 'punched' someone, for God's sake! I wanted one of them to slash his face with a razor, Mickey Rourke-style, that'd be cool, and it would really freak out all the five year olds watching. To be fair to them, though, they did throw themselves around with gusto, and their backs looked all red and sore, so it must hurt, and it's something I'd never do (probably because the sight of me running around in swimming trunks and bright green knee-high boots would turn the Memorabilia Show into the Projectile Vomit-Con 2009) so, my hat goes off to them. If I ever wore one. Which I don't.
At the end of the show, Jamie went up to one of the guys who organises the show and congratulated him on how good it was (Despite all my moaning above, I did have a good time. Moaning's just what I do.) and on the table in front of him was a load of large glossy prints of various people sitting next to Robert Vaughn. They apparently had a scheme where you pay to have your picture taken with the former Man from U.N.C.L.E. and you pick it up at the end, like you do when you get off a rollercoaster at Alton Towers. The weird thing was that the ex-Napoleon Solo (another intersting fact- Ian Fleming came up with that name. Also, my dad was such a big fan of The Man From U.N.C.L.E. that I was nearly given the name Napoleon Trimble. I'm glad he saw sense) had exactly the same facial expression in all of them. They might as well have taken one picture of him and photoshopped him next to all of those other people.
(Actually, I read in the Birmingham Mail the other day, that the next series of Hustle is being filmed up here in Brum, and that Robert Vaughn is looking for an apartment in this very city. Hopefully I'll bump into him and get an autograph and save myself twenty quid!)
And so, after about three hours of looking at cool stuff, and after trying and failing to get our picture taken with a bloke dressed as Iron Man, Jamie and I headed on the long, long walk back to the train station with our freshly-bought junk weighing us down. I got a few books and a few more batmobiles (one of which Jamie bought for me, bless him) and we'd had a good time. I'd definitely go again. It's a good laugh.

Oh, and the guy who plays PC Stamp's name is Graham Cole, apparently.

I've been expecting you, Mister Bond, but you didn't bloody show up!

Like I said before, I've not been posting much because I've been drawing. None of it is paid work, but I'm trying to build up a portfolio of new stuff. I've nearly finished page three of a self-penned strip which will be a four or five pager eventually, I'll show you that stuff when it's all done. I've also spent some of my time doing the picture below, as I was going to the Memorabilia show at the NEC and I heard George Lazenby was going to be there, and I was going to get him to sign it and it would've been a nice geeky thing to add to my collection of Bond stuff. He wasn't there. He might've been hiding (he is a master spy, after all) but I don't think he was there. Anyway, I'll let you know what else was at the show in another post (when I've got time!), but I wanted to share the On Her Majesty's Secrety Service pic with you, because I'm quite proud of it. Here it is (click on it for a larger image):

MICK TRIMBLE WILL RETURN IN

'A FOUL MOOD'