Changes and Shit.

This, generally, has been a tough week. I don't really want to go into it, but the result is that me and my glamorous other half are no more. She wants to be my glamorous ex-other half. Shit, ain't it?

Still, I could throw myself into my work. I'd rather throw myself into a threshing machine, but seeing as I live in the ultra-urban conurbation known as Birmingham, threshing machines aren't exactly ten-a-penny. There is Thresher's, however, where you can purchase a whole range of stuff that your sorrows can learn to swim in.

My work is shit. Literally. We had a meeting last week where all us fully-grown shop-floor employees were called up to the canteen and were told by our foreman and shop-steward that we're not to shit on the seats of the toilets. Thanks for the advice. I've told you all before about the knuckle-dragging cro-magnons I call my colleagues, and their toilet habits. Well, apparently, our cleaner has had enough and she's refused to clean up the big chunks of faeces that have inexplicably ended up stuck to the bog seat. Fair play to her. It was at this precise moment that I decided I really, really don't want to work there any longer (if it wasn't for the Jane Eyre fiasco I wouldn't have been, by now.) I've decided to re-train myself. I don't know what as, yet, but like the cleaner, I can't put up with this shit any longer.

In other news, the Arts team at Birmingham Museum & Art Gallery (The people I did the ArtsChampion leaflet for, last summer) got in touch with me today and told me thay want to give me another three hundred quid, as they're going to put the above image on the side of a couple of vans that they're using to promote the scheme. Though it's probably not the work I'm most proud of, it has earned me a fair bit of cash, and given me some free publicity. Thank fuck for the ArtsChampion! (despite the fact Jonni called him the ArseChampion!)

So, if you're in the sprawling Second City at any point in the future, and you see an ArtsChampions van, you now know who did the picture. For what it's worth.

Birthday of a blog.

Ahh, there you are.
This blog is one year old today. If only I knew then what I know now. Which is fuck all.
Here is my first post, if you're interested in how all this started.
I kind of started this blog as somewhere to post my artwork, and hopefully get some paid work, but we all know how that panned out. Never mind. You'll have to make do with my opinions then, I'm afraid.
Thanks to everyone that's left a comment, good and bad, and those secretive sods who lurk around, but still take an interest in whatever shit I'm moaning about that day. Thanks also to those people who leave me comments about penis enlargers and erection pills. They're very useful, they've changed my life and if I ever meet the fucker who told you about my 'problem', I'm going to rip their eyes out and poke my brand-new enlarged penis in their eye socket.
(My male pride wants me to tell you that there isn't really a 'problem' with my 'downstairs', I was joking. Honest.)
Oh well, I'm off now to bake my blog a cake, and stick a candle in it. I won't ask it to make a wish, as that would be silly.

Piss Kick.

I thought I was nearly better yesterday, so I ventured into work today just to realise I'm not that much better at all. I feel as rough as a badger's ballbag. So, despite all your 'Get Well' messages, I'm still ill, but thanks anyway. What is worrying about this illness is a weird new symptom I've discovered. My elbows are spotty. I don't know what this signifies. I have all the other 'fluey stuff ie. snot, cough, phlegm and aches, but spotty elbows are a new one on me.
Yesterday, as you all know was St. Valentine's Day, a day made famous by a massacre. Me and the missus don't generally make much of a fuss on Valentine's, but this year I thought I'd treat her, especially after the care she took of me during my illness, so I bought her a nice new bag and a new belt. When I gave them to her, though, she went mental and didn't speak to me all day. Still, the hoover works a treat, now.
Not really. We really don't make much of a fuss, but we do generally get each other a prezzie, have a nice meal, and spend the evening together. This year, however, the light of my life told me she was going to spend St. Valentine's evening in the company of a psychic. How romantic. These people are shysters. You've just got to look at Derek Acorah (see below). They never tell us anything good, like the winning Lotto numbers, or the winner of the Cheltenham Gold Cup, they just tell us sub-horoscope "you'll meet a tall dark stranger" cobblers, and pretend it's not them making it up, it's your dead relatives telling you a revealing truth. Which is a load of shit. I can't believe in an afterlife , and if there is one, I don't reckon it's full of spirits desperate to tell their living relatives that the lamp found on the skip is worth a lot of money. Why otherwise intelligent people want to waste their money on this crap is beyond me.
Anyway, The psychic eventually cancelled (unforeseen circumstances? Her powers are weak!) so we watched a scary film about a psychic with the kids instead, and had our nice evening after all.

Sick.

I have spent most of the weekend just gone lying down, shaking like a shitting dog, and whimpering. I've got the 'flu. Proper 'flu as well, not what is referred to as 'man-flu' by women who don't know what they're on about. I was genuinely worried it might be bird-flu, but I remembered that I've not eaten any turkey, Hungarian or otherwise, since Christmas.
I'm feeling a bit stronger today, but over the weekend I've suffered with coughing, sneezing, every joint in my body aching (I exaggerate slightly, I think one of my vertebrae didn't hurt.) headache, constant running snot, vomiting and diarrhoea. I've not slept well, and neither has my partner, who has had to put up with my constant coughing and violent shiverings whilst sharing a bed with me. She's looked after me, though, bless her. She even got up at four in the morning to make me a hot Beechams. I'm just hoping she doesn't catch my illness, as I don't think I'll be quite as accommodating. She's a much nicer person than I.
Whilst lying on the sofa yesterday, drifting in and out of sleep, I found out that Sunday's TV is crap. Really crap. It's like the schedulers know that people who are watching telly on a Sunday are either ill or hungover so they stick any old shit on knowing the audience are too weak to change the channel. I even watched Top Gear, and surprisingly, it made some serious political commentary about the so-called Land Of The Free.
Anyway, gotta go now, it's Lemsip time.

Thought for today.

I hate snow.

Cracked Panels.

The image I used for my last post was from an old meme on Progressive Ruin, an excellent comics weblog by Mike Sterling. They have these panel-based memes quite often, and I do them, eventually, but too late to take part, and whilst traipsing through my hard drive to find the Hulk image, I found some of these panels. Some of them aren't very good, but I need to clear memory space, as somebody's iPod is taking over the computer. Also, the Dino one is a new one, in reply to Jonni's effort.

Mick Smash!!

I had to change to New Blogger today, it's not 'Beta' anymore, so it must be 'Gamma'. Using 'Gamma' must've irradiated me, changing my DNA, and unleashed my inner monster.

For example- Today, I'd finished inking a page of my strip ( Which consisted mainly of a werewolf having his brains blown out through the front of his mush. I love drawing exploding heads!) and, once the ink was dry, I started rubbing out the pencil marks that are still visible. My rubber (Eraser, if you're a Yank. Rubbing prophylactics on my artwork is not something I've tried yet, but some people might say it can't make it any worse. I hate those people.) decided to eat big chunks out of the bristol board and leave grey smears all over the place. I changed rubbers (the new one wasn't ribbed.) and this wouldn't get rid of the smears. My pupils turned white, my shirt ripped (but only among the seams, though) My skin and hair turned green, my shoes burst, I grew bigger( and, no matter how big I grew, my trousers stayed on, as the hulk never, ever shows his big green cock.) and with inhuman strength, I threw my rubber at the stereo, and with a guttural, almost inhuman voice, I shouted "For Fuck's Sake!!"

After a while, I found myself waking up in a stranger's back garden, behind their bins, with just a pair of tatty ripped jeans on. I pinched a shirt from their washing line ,(which, as always, is dry. I'd love to see Dr. Banner put a soaking wet shirt on, lose his rag and have to pinch another shirt a bit later on.) came home, and sorted out the picture by using a completely new rubber (non-spermicidal) and turning the ripped bit into another piece of flying brain.

It's like Johnny Rotten said, anger is an energy.

The Magic Number?

I love watching films. I like reading about them. I'm the type of bloke who will watch a DVD extra-documentary about editing, because I find the whole process of film-making fascinating. (Except for those people who go around weddings, christenings, or any big family party with camcorders, as they piss me off. If they didn't have a camera and just stuck their nose in to people's conversations the partygoers would consider them just plain fucking rude. In my family, which is mainly Irish in origin, anyone sticking their nose in would get it punched and broken, and rightly so. Nosey fuckers.)
I sometimes buy Empire magazine, as it gives me something to read whilst having a dump, and they have this habit of 'bigging up' forthcoming major releases. This year, the films coming out leave me dismayed at the lack of originality and imagination amongst Hollywood's creators. Despite films like Hot Fuzz, Sunshine, Grindhouse and Stardust (films I'm particularly looking forward to.), this summer's big releases are all sequels. There are films like Die Hard 4, Harry Potter 5, National Treasure 2, Saw4, Fantastic Four 2 (loving the Silver Surfer in the trailer, even if he's gained the superpower of being able to phase through stuff, like X-Men's Kitty Pryde, despite no precursor in the comics.)and remakes of The Hitcher, Halloween and Hairspray (all beginning with 'H'. Coincidence?).
These all illustrate the dearth of original thoughts in Hollywood, but most of the tentpole blockbusters are what are known as 'Threequels', ie. second sequels, ie. films ending in '3'. There's Rush Hour 3, Pirates Of The Caribbean 3, Bourne 3 (Isn't it weird how the new Amarican 21st century superspies Jason Bourne and Jack Bauer have the same initials as the 1950's British superspy James Bond?), Shrek 3, Resident Evil 3, and finally, Spider-Man 3. Everyone knows that most film franchises go off the rails at the third movie. Just remember the third films in the Superman, Blade, Rocky, Alien, Lethal Weapon, Terminator, X-Men, Batman, Jurassic Park, Hellraiser, and the Godfather franchises. All rubbish. (There are good third films, including The Return Of The King, Army Of Darkness, The Good, The Bad, And The Ugly, Goldfinger and Indiana Jones And The Last Crusade, although, maybe those last two are due to the fact that Sir Sean Connery is in both of them, and he makes even a shit film watchable. I was going to include Return Of The Jedi as well, but compared to the first two it is an overblown rubbish compilation of the best bits of its predecessors with added dwarves in furry suits.)
I hope Spider-Man 3 bucks the trend. The first two are excellent, maybe because they only had one villain in them. The second one was better (maybe because I've always loved Doc Ock as a super-villain.), but judging by the trailer of the third one, it has at least three villains. Sandman, Venom, and a new Green Goblin all appear, and I'm hoping it doesn't follow the precursor set by the Batman films, ie. the more villains there are, the shitter the movie. Batman just had the Joker, Batman Returns had Catwoman and the Penguin, Batman Forever had Two-face and the Riddler, and Batman And Robin had Poison Ivy, Mr. Freeze and Bane. Loads of villains lead to a lack of focus and therefore a crapper film. X-Men 3, for example, had two plots, the mutant cure and the Phoenix storylines, and if the film focused on either plot and not both, it would've been a much better film.
It's about time Hollywood started making original films.I'm fed up with sequels, remakes, spoofs and video game and comics adaptations. With the competition movies now have with satellite TV, video games and the internet, it's got to get better or it will find itself obsolete.