Post-Mortem.

All the turkey is gone. Christmas has come and gone with the inevitable feeling of anticlimax. Weeks and weeks of build up just lead to a living room floor covered with bits of wrapping paper. Wrapping paper you've spent hours sitting cross-legged on the floor putting on, and ultimately giving yourself either arthritis or thrombosis, just for some snotty-nosed breadsnatcher to rip it off and chuck it on the floor.
Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed Christmas, I love seeing my kids' faces as they open their presents. I love Christmas dinner , I love spending time around a table full of nice food (even if there isn't any dead pig-related produce) with my missus and kids whilst wearing stupid paper hats. Hats which remind me that I have some kind of mutated giant cranium ( like the Tefal men or the Hulk's nemesis, the Leader) because I've never got one to fit me, ever. They always rip down the seam. I love and appreciate the thought and work and effort my better half has put in to making sure my kids and I have a nice day. I hope she appreciates similar (if not so kitchen-y) efforts I've made. Like not shouting at the telly like usual.
Christmas tends to be the time of year my family tell me I smell bad. I was given shower gel and shaving gel by my good lady, my daughter bought me a can of Marvel Super Heroes foam soap, which I thought would probably smell like Matt Murdoch's crotch after a particularly gruelling swing around Hell's Kitchen on a summer's day, but actually smells quite nice, even if the actual point of foam soap escapes me. I was also bought socks from M&S which, apparently, have special technology in them to stop your feet from smelling. Another subtle hint there, from the people that are supposed to love me, that I stink. Also, these socks have the days of the week embroidered on them, so I know how many days it's been since I last had a bath. (Interestingly, the socks had a sticker on them saying "Special Offer! Two Pairs Free!" which got me thinking; Before they implemented the offer, did Saturday and Sunday not exist? Or is it just me who dares to wear socks on the weekend?)
Christmas also has other pitfalls, i.e. relatives. There are the ones that don't make any contact at all and upset you with their indifference to you at this time of year. At the other end of the scale there are those who you wish would just fuck off and leave you alone. Those people you are related to because your partner is related to them, and even she doesn't particularly like them, either, but we feel obliged to either go to their houses or let them come to ours. I know it sounds ungrateful, as they do want to see us and give us our gifts, but I could really do without listening to my Mother-In-Law fart loudly on Boxing Day. Saying that, I could really do without listening to my Mother-In-Law at all. (I might tell you all about my barmy M-i-L one day. There is a lot of material there. I'm just worried she might chance upon this blog one day, and then come flying around on her broomstick and zap me into a frog-shaped creature.)
Generally, 2006 was a crappy year and I'm glad it's nearly finished. With my new job starting in January, a job I've wanted to do my whole life, I'm hoping 2007 wil be a good 'un. Here's hoping you lot have a great New Year also.

Merry Chrimble from Mister Trimble.

It really is amazing what you find on Google Images. I was trying to find a funny picture of Santa to send in an email, and I found this particular image. It appears Santa is lying comatose (using a holly wreath as a pillow!) on a wooden table without his trousers on. The tiled floor might suggest he's in some sort of medical establishment, like he's had an accident, or it could also suggest it's some poor sod's kitchen, and Father Christmas has collapsed after one too many sherries. I really love his Christmassy socks. I had a jumper like that when I was six. I've since destroyed that particular photograph. I thought it was just too weird so I used an image of Santa about to eat Rudolph's head instead.
Anyway, below is a nice image of Santa having his guts pushed in by an almost omnipotent alien.

I digress. This post was intended to wish you all a very merry Chrimbletide and a ridiculously terrific New Year, but gone off on a tangent about Santa's socks. So- have yourselves a very merry Chrimbletide and a ridiculously terrific New Year!


Enjoy Responsibly.

P.S. In addition to my previous post, I've found my appointment as penciller on Jane Eyre has been announced on a Bronte fan blog, using big chunks of my blog as part of the announcement. It was posted the day after I wrote my post! News travels fast! It's kinda weird and if I didn't worry about it before, I am now, as I've realised there's thousands of Bronte fans out there who don't want to be disappointed.

"Reader, I pencilled him."

I've just had an email to tell me that I'll be pencilling a 144 page comics adaptation/ graphic novel version of Charlotte Bronte's Jane Eyre. Going to the Birmingham Comics Show was worth it, after all, then, as my own mysterious benefactor met me at the con. This means I am now a proper, professional artist. This also means I can give up my crappy day job. This also means I'll be spending my Christmas researching mid-19th century clothes and practising drawing horses, oh, and reading the source material. Still, that beats watching Noel's Christmas Video Family Accidents on Boxing Day Morning. I'm quite chuffed. I reckon it'll take me at least half an hour before reverting to my natural state of 'slightly pissed off'.
The picture above is my prelim of Thornfield Hall. The video below didn't help me at all in my research:

Tinselitis.

I have mixed feelings about Christmas. I am a total atheist, yet I believe we should celebrate it. Surely all cultures, Christian or otherwise, have a festival to help lighten the mood during the dark months. (I was one of the few who supported Birmingham city council's attempt to call their Christmas events 'Winterval' a few years back, as it didn't exclude anyone from joining in.)
Whilst I love spending Christmas with my immediate family (my extended family can fuck right off) I hate the build-up to the festivities with a passion. I did some Xmas shopping today, and the bastard who first coined the phrase 'goodwill to all men' obviously never tried to buy any presents in Argos on any Saturday in December. People barge you, push in, stop dead in front of you when you're marching forcefully, and people in my extended family, in-law or otherwise (outlaw?) steadfastly refuse to be easy to buy gifts for.
Also, I hate listening to the same old shite every Christmas. It's something the bands of the Midlands have a lot to answer for. Slade and Wizzard's Christmas records are good examples of their type, but after listening to them twelve thousand times every November and December they lose their Brummie charm. (My auntie Linda is part of the kids' choir on Wizzard's I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day and it makes me feel guilty to criticise her only claim to fame. That's not true, actually. Her laugh is also famous, as it sounds like a seal with whooping cough.) Local radio doesn't help, either. I'm forced to listen to it at work, and it doesn't play the decent Christmas records until the day itself is really close, and so they force feed me Mariah Carey and Bon Jovi until I throw up.
Also, for the last few years, Birmingham has had a Frankfurt Christmas market invade the top of New St. We're twinned with Frankfurt, you see, and I wonder what we send them in return. Do we send them our market traders? Do the festive Frankfurt shoppers delight to our local wares, such as five lighters for a pound? West Bromwich Albion phone fascias? Factory second Cadbury mis-shapes? Special offers on cabbages, ladies? ( I don't know about market traders in other parts of the country, but in Brum, all our marketeers shout out all their special offers with the word 'ladies' at the end. It's sexist, and it makes me feel excluded, as I might actually want three aubergines for a pound.) It's also interesting that they put the Frankfurt market in New Street, and not by our other markets in the city centre, as that's where the statue is that commemorates those we lost in the Blitz. It's a shame as our German friends might be shamed into selling us their tat at a discounted rate. That said, the German market is varied and colourful, and adds a lot of spice to what is, frankly, a very dull street the rest of the time. I just wonder where do the Frankfurters go if they want to buy traditional German Christmas stuff like lebkuchen and stollen if all of their traders are over here?
Like most things, I blame my indifference to Christmas on my parents. My Dad would not let me and my brothers believe in Father Christmas. He said, and I'm paraphrasing; "I work fucking hard all year to pay for your presents, and I'm not letting some imaginary fat cunt from Lapland get all the glory!" He's got a point, but I reckon it took a little of the magic away from the festivities. Maybe living in Erdington also took some of the shine off!
Despite all of this, I want my family to have a great Christmas, and I also hope that you, my friends in blogland also have a great Chrimbo. I hope the 'imaginary fat cunt from Lapland' gets you exactly what you want, and if he doesn't, it's the thought that counts!

BrumConvalescence.

Went to a comics show yesterday. I would've gone today and all but my digestive system has collapsed and gone mental and if you add this to the cold I already had, it means I spent today vomiting, sneezing, coughing and farting whilst lying on the sofa and watching the Hulk movie on ITV2( "You wouldn't like me when I'm Ang Lee!") , instead of shuffling around the Custard Factory, bothering people that have met me before and therefore are trying to escape.
Anyway, yesterday, We sold all of six copies of MC2 between us. Very Poor. I caught up with many of the faces I hadn't seen since the last con at Bristol. I met two people I'd only previously known through this blog stuff. They weren't weirdoes, either! I executed my secret Santa obligation with extreme prejudice, and I bought Dave Gibbons a pint of Boddington's on the night. (See the picture of us both on the left, a comics legend standing next to Dave Gibbons. Snap taken by Stevie Wonder. I'm the one on the left.) Oh, and I might have bagged myself a gig which means I can give up my shitty day job and live at my drawing board instead. I may be working with an up and coming writer named Charlotte Bronte. More on that later when I know more about it myself. Still it's worth celebrating-bottoms up!

(Right. Back to the sofa. The good thing about being sick is that you're allowed to not go to work. It's just a shame I'll spend tomorrow watching Jeremy Kyle and Cash In The Attic whilst spewing my ring up.)

Captain Cack.

I was going to leave it until I'd seen them all, but I can't hold it in anymore- TORCHWOOD IS A LOAD OF SHIT!!
I tend to watch the Wednesday repeat because the Sunday one goes on too late for us poor sods who have to get up at six in the morning on Monday. Having sat through that load of rubbish last night, I don't think I'll bother watching the rest (although, there is usually fuck all else on, and my better half likes it, so I probably will end up seeing them.)
Russell T.Davies said that it's a shame we don't have shows like Buffy or Angel in this country, so he developed Torchwood. I've got news for him. We still haven't got a show like Buffy. I didn't even like Buffy that much!!
Torchwood's just badly cast, the stories are stupid, not just do I have to suspend disbelief as have it surgically removed! The character Gwen is supposed to be the 'ordinary one' ie. the one who is our eyes into the secret world of Torchwood, but she is an annoying gappy cow. That is some banjo cleaner! How she is supposed to succeed when all she does is cry every five fucking minutes is beyond me. Owen is a supposed to be a Cockney wideboy, and therefore a loveable rogue, but north of Watford, Cockney wideboys are regarded as just arseholes. He's supposed to be a bit of a ladykiller as well, sleeping with Gwen and Susie, and Tosh has a crush on him as well. Not bad for a bloke with a face like a trod-on chip.(Discrepancy: In the first episode he had to use an alien pheromone to get laid, suggesting he was a bit of a sad loser with girls, then all of a sudden, he's turned into Don Juan!) Toshiko is just a boring techie, they made her a lesbian in one episode in an attempt to make her interesting, but it didn't work. Ianto is the Zeppo Marx of the outfit. He just takes up screen space. Last but not least is Captain Jack Harkness. A typical all-teeth Yank. John Barrowman thinks he's the new Tom Cruise but he reminds me of Grandstand's John Inverdale. He's just not convincing when he has to be tough, although he can handle the quips very well, and he probably is the best of the bunch, which isn't saying much at all. He runs like a girl, as well. His history only comes back to haunt him when it's relevant to the plot. How did he get back to present-day Cardiff, anyway?
The direction is also annoying. All those panoramic shots of Cardiff, like it's cool! All those bits where it's slow motion for a few seconds before it returns to normal speed, just to make the gang look cool when they're getting out of their van. Which, incidentally, just makes them look a bit like Scooby-Doo and the Mystery Machine gang.
The plots are stupid. Take last night's episode, for instance. Susie's whole life was packed away in boxes in a garage. It took the gang exactly a minute to find the piece of paper they were looking for, as well as remarking on the Emily Dickinson book that was to come in really useful later on. The supposedly alien glove looks like it was built to fit a human hand, and Susie's whole elaborate plan to get back to life once killed was supposed to be the perfect plan, but it was ridiculous! What if that Max bloke had resisted arrest and got shot instead of being taken back to Torchwood, the plan would have failed. And how did Owen know Gwen only had a couple of hours left to live? How did Gwen find Susie's dad when it was impossible before? The episode was just fucking crap. The episode with that alien that lives off the energy of the male orgasm, how come it just happened, out of all the thousands of people in Cardiff, to possess a girl who just happened to work in a sperm bank? The episode with the fairies; they beat up on paedophiles and school bullies, and we're not supposed to be on their side? That episode just ended badly, with the threat just left to carry on with what they wanted to do. For a show that's supposed to be about aliens and the supernatural, it handles both subjects really badly. It's no coincidence that the best episode was the one about the cannibals' harvest, which contained no supernatural elements in its plot at all.
Also, having a post-watershed slot might be good if they did actually give us an adult show, you know, an intelligent one, not just a dumb one with lesbian kissing and the odd character saying 'fuck' or 'bollocks' just to justify that it is really for grown ups, and not Hollyoaks with SF nobs on.

The return of Bunty?

This kinda harks back to a previous post or two I did about girls' comics.(They're a good read. the posts, I mean. Not girls' comics. Some of the most interesting comments I've ever received were from those posts. Not much competition, I know, especially these days,with 'many have machines not insuranced'...)It seems that DC is introducing a new comics line for teenage girls. DC's plans are outlined here. Anything that brings in more readers is a good thing, I suppose, but my teenage daughter reads Ultimate Spider-man and Ultimate X-Men. It's probably because she's the daughter of a nerd.
Why is it, though, that through the horrible puberty years, girls want to read about other girls going through the same shit? The boys that do read tend to want to escape the life of wanking and spots. Well, in the fiction they read, anyway.

Pros and Cons.

Next week, It's the Birmingham Comics Show, and I've managed to scav myself a free weekend ticket! Huzzah! The nice people behind the StripSearch initiative (which started my comics arts adventures), Hi8us, are paying for all the ex-StripSearchers to go! Yay!
I'll be manning the Midlands Comics Collective's table from 10-12 on the Saturday, and from 2pm on Sunday, if you want to pop by and have a chat, and possibly even buy the MC2 book. I will also be propping up a bar somewhere from about 7pm onwards.
I'm glad there's a con in Brum this year. Last year's con in Brighton was fun, but it was a wanker to get to. I don't know if I've regaled you all with the story of last year's trip, but if you have already heard it, stop listening now.
My lovely girlfriend specially booked a train that would take us straight to Brighton. It cost a bit more, but we didn't have to fuck about changing trains. That was the plan, anyway. It turned up half an hour late. The heating in the carriages had packed up and as this was November, it was fucking freezing. We got to Leamington Spa and stopped for forty-five minutes only to be told to get off as there had been a derailment a bit further down the line. We get off in the fantastic town that is Royal Leamington Spa, and after fighting through what appeared to be a world record attempt for the biggest rugby scrum ever attempted I managed to see the man at the information desk to ask how the hell are we going to get to Brighton. He said there will be coaches along in a minute that will take everyone to Banbury, and there we can get a train to Reading, and there's loads of trains from Reading to Brighton.
The coaches took ages to arrive. When they did, it was like Royal Rumble in Royal Leamington Spa, with people wrestling with each other to get on the coaches. People were getting speared with umbrella points, getting showered with hot coffee, falling over them stupid fucking little wheelie suitcase things and generally being squashed and sworn at. We finally got on the last coach and head to Banbury.
At Banbury we got on a train that we thought was going to Reading, but was in fact heading for London. So we got off it, and waited for the train to Reading. This train finally comes, but it is full to brimming with people so the journey down to Reading is spent with me and my partner stood up outside the toilet the whole way there. The bog was one of those automatic things, but the door wouldn't shut properly, so we had endless fun watching people who are desperate for a piss struggling like fuck trying to keep this door closed.
We disembark in Reading only to find out that, contrary to what the poxy print-tie wearing motherfucker had told us in Leamington, that there are NO trains to Brighton at all! This particular bit of news breaks my patner's resolve, and she starts crying. Bloody women. Anyway, through the tears she asks the nice man behind the counter if getting to Brighton is beyond the realms of possibility. He told us we had to get a train to London (remember that train we got off earlier?) and get a tube train to Farringdon, from where we are to get a train to Brighton. This part of the journey went to plan, except for a minor incident when the turnstile at the tube wouldn't accept my ticket. We finally got to Brighton at about half-five, ten hours after we left. You can get to Canada in less time. So we missed almost all of the first day of the con, and because we had to go early afternoon the next day, didn't really spend much time at the actual convention at all. Still , on the night, we got royally pissed, and I met Glenn Fabry, who was out of his tree and talking to a door. We also got bought drinks by the editor of Nuts magazine and Dez Skinn was also breathing fumes on us ao we made our excuses and buggered off.
We get back and complained to (surprise, surprise) Virgin,filling a form very similar to the one below, who gave us rail vouchers, despite the fact I never want to go on a train ever again.
Well, at least this year I won't have that problem. I've just got to rely on West Midlands Travel.
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!