Mick's BICS

Last weekend, I attended the British International Comics Show (BICS) here in Birmingham, and it was a really enjoyable weekend. The venue, as it as has been for the last couple of years, was Millenium point, a giant, grey building that looks like it should be in Mega-City One. this means that the two guys dressed up as Mega-City judges looked right at home when they were milling about the place.

Our friends Jamie and Theresa came up to stay with us for the weekend, so this meant Jamie and I could go to the show whilst the ladies went shopping. They also went to see Fame at the cinema, and apparently it's a load of shit. What a surprise.

When you get there, you have to go into the lift to get to where the event is being held. This must've been the right place, because sharing the lift with us was a stormtrooper. Not the historical Nazi-type, you understand, the imperial type, from Star Wars. After we got out of the lift, Jamie, who is a Star Wars nut, saw a group of blokes dressed up as various types from the space saga. There were Clone Troopers, Stormtroopers, Mandalorians (well, a couple of guys dressed as Boba Fett, anyway)and TIE-fighter pilots. He gave me his camera and then went and asked them if he could have his photo taken with them, and they duly told him to get on his knees and pointed their blasters at him. As usual, I pressed the button and nothing happened. I have a real problem with digital cameras. It's as if my hands turn into cow's tits.(That's why all of our holiday photos have just me in them!) It's a shame, it would've been a cool photo.

After we got in, we had a mooch about, and there seemed to be quite a lot fewer stalls than there were last year, but this meant there was more room to walk about. Unless you were stuck behind the Dalek, which seemed to revel in blocking the gangways. This year, as I didn't really have anything new to sell, my plan was to show my portfolio around and hopefully get some work. Everyone I showed my work to really seemed to like it, and I've already had a couple of emails asking me if I'd like to do something.(more on that when I know more myself!)

The main reason for going to these things, however, is to catch up with people you only ever tend to see at these things or shoot the shit with the creators you've worked with before. I tend to find that you hardly ever talk about comics with comics creators. The main topic of conversation seemed to be how shite the launch party was. I was glad I didn't go. It was held in the Panama bar, which is off Broad Street (Birmingham's 'Golden Mile' , which is only golden in the same way a stream of piss is golden.) I read somewhere that BICS special guest Howard Chaykin described the women he'd seen on Broad Street as “the sluttiest, trampiest women” he’d ever seen. Sounds about right.

As usual, we met up with Andy Winter, my collaborator on Septic Isle (still selling well), and moaned about the state of the world, as we tend to do, and we arranged to go out for dinner later on. I also showed him the two pages I've done for the four-page web comic I'm doing for him right now. (preview panel above) Also, over the weekend, I bumped into a couple of people I've not seen for a couple of years. Firstly, there was Michiru Morikawa, who was on the StripSearch course with me way back in the mists of time, and anyone who lives in Brum will be familiar with her art, as it is her work that's on the back of many of our buses, asking people if they want to adopt. Anyway, she's gone back to live in Japan, but she was back to promote her book Buskers, published by Imsomnia Publications. Her work is fantastic, pick up a copy. It's worth it.

I also bumped into fellow Brummie and Villa fan Ben McCool, who wrote the script for the Stuffed comic, which included my very first published comic art. He lives in the Big Apple these days, writing for DC. As usual, he had a stinking hangover when I saw him. He told me that he was taking his DC editor to Villa Park for the match against Manchester City. That's got to be a culture shock for the poor sod. He probably now knows very well what Karren Brady gets up to of a night-time, after having it sung at him by 40,000 people.

I also had a couple of stints manning the MC2 table, which was right next to Diamond Distribution's table, which had loads of free comics on it. During both of my stints, I never sold any books, but I was asked about sixty times 'Are these free?' by punters looking at the Diamond table.

On the Saturday night, Me and my glamourous other half, Jamie and his, Andy Winter and Andy Radbourne (creator of Brit Force, another comic you should go out and get) all went out for dinner and a few drinks, and a cracking night was spoiled when I got home by me not looking where I was going in my garden and ending up falling into some bushes and skinning my knee. The less said about this the better.

We went back on the Sunday, after being forced to watch Strictly Come Dancing, which seems to go on forever. There have been wars that have taken less time. Most wars are probably less psychologically scarring, too. I showed my portfolio to the people I didn't get a chance to see the day before, and again, generally positive feedback. I ummed and aahed about forking out for some Copic pens. They were very expensive, and despite hearing 'they're what Adam Hughes uses' at least twenty times, I decided not to, as I'm not Adam Hughes.

Generally, though, it was a great weekend, and I'm hoping it happens again next year, which is likely, as more people came this year, apparently. More normal-looking people, too! Since I've been going to Comic-cons regularly, I've noticed that the clientele is getting more and more normal-looking; glamourous, even! The days of the BO-stinking hunchbacks are long gone.

Shock News! Something Interesting Happening In Birmingham!

This weekend, I'll be attending the BICS (it used to be the Birmingham international comics show, but it has been upgraded to the British international comics show this year.), which is held at Millenium Point, here in Birmingham. I'll be manning the MC2 table for a wee bit each day, and no doubt I'll be lurking around the Moonface Press table at some point, too, so if you want your freshly-purchased copy of Septic Isle signed by me, hunt me down. Figuratively speaking, of course.


It's really strange attending one of these things in your own town. I'm used to going to Bristol and staying in a hotel, so just hopping a bus to go to a major convention like this doesn't seem right, yet. This event is going from strength to strength every year, and with the Bristol show seemingly shrinking away into nothing, it's possibly now the UK's premier comics convention. I just hope all the publishers do something original this year, the last couple of years have been dominated by zombies. Marvel zombies 1,2& 3. Zombie variant covers. Barack Obama vs. The Army Of Darkness (okay, I made that one up, but I wouldn't be surprised if something like this turns up in Previews in the near future.) And last but not least, DC have jumped on the bandwagon with Blackest Night (which is apparently quite good, although I'm yet to read any of it). I'm fed up with the reanimated dead. You wouldn't catch me jumping on that particular bandwagon.

Okay, maybe I would. It's good to see the Zombie-Mick would still wear his glasses.

Anyway, come along to BICS! You know it'll be good for you!

Oh, and following up on my last post, I thought I'd put this video up, too. You've probably seen it, as it's done the rounds, but it raises a smile, even on my dry, black-hearted , cynical lips.

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.

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.

Mick's BICS.

Well, Birmingham International Comics Show went by in a flash, didn't it? It's in its third year now, and it keeps getting better. It's certainly more slick and better organised , less malodorous and in a nicer venue than its Bristol counterpart, but it's still not quite got the vibe that the Brizzle expo has. Like Sting says, though, I'm sure it'll come eventually.

Andy Winter and I were there to flog Septic Isle, we got there fairly early on Saturday morning (after we'd had 'a night on the pop' on Friday) and discovered that our table was the first one people would see as they came in. However, we weren't in the main hall, so it turned out ours was the first table people would ignore as they rush past to go and meet John Cassaday. Just after we set up and had a coffee I got a phonecall from my friend and fellow MC2-er Laura Howell asking me if I could help them carry their stuff up from the car. I dutifully go down and offer my services and get roped in to carrying someone else's stuff, leaving Tim (Laura's partner) standing there in the car park like a spare prick. After I carried the other lady's stuff up to the exhibition hall, I rushed back down to see poor old Tim struggling with three big wooden boards and helped them carry it all up after all.

My good deed done for the day, I sat back down behind our table and got ready to meet the punters. We shifted a few copies of Septic Isle, but it wasn't exactly flying off the stand. Our stall was directly opposite a large projection screen, which, at about eleven o'clock, started showing an extended trailer for ITV2's crappy sitcom No Heroics. It showed it again and again and again and again. Not really helping us with sales. Jean-Paul Sartre once said that hell would be being stuck in a room with your friends for all eternity. Well, he was wrong. Hell is being sat opposite a loop of a really unfunny trailer (and besides, I like my friends. Most of them, anyway. I think you have to put Sartre's comments into context. His mates were French, after all.) The trailer was completely inappropriate anyway, as it was a room with quite a lot of young children in it, and the trailer had references to drug use, masturbation and someone said 'fucking' in it too. Andy, bless him, had a word with Shane (one of the organisers and a really nice bloke) about how annoying it was, he agreed with us and it promptly stopped. The sense of relief amongst the row of stalls we were in was palpable.

The other thing I've noticed after going to a few of these things in recent years is the change of the type of punters that are coming to the cons. When I first started going there were very few females attending, there are certainly more attending these days. Admittedly, a lot of them are girlfriends being dragged along by their nerdy other half (like my girlfriend, who I've not mentioned so far, but she did come along with me, bless her, despite us both being up to our eyes with our house-moving) but there are a lot of genuine female fans coming to the conventions.( I know there has always been genuine female comics fans out there, they just didn't seem to come along to conventions). There tends to be a lot more families coming along too, which is also a good thing.

But there are also the cosplayers. The ones at Brum tended to be of characters I'd heard of, the Bristol con tends to get the manga/anime freaks dressed as characters even I've not heard of, as nerdy as I am, and the costumes at Brum tended to be of a very high standard. There were some professional dresser-uppers there too, special mention must go to the guy dressed as the Heath Ledger Joker, as he did really look like him (or 'fucking creepy' as my lovely other half put it) and, though I wasn't looking, obviously, the lady dressed as Harley Quinn looked nice, too. There were also people dressed up as Dan Dare (although his eyebrows weren't the same distinctive shape as Dare's; things like that are important to me. I know, it's an illness, I can't help it!), Batman and some of the Thundercats.

Our friends Jamie and Theresa turned up a bit later, moaning about how poxy it is to get around Birmingham. Theresa rescued my girlfriend and they went off shopping. I later got a text from Heather telling me that Geri Halliwell was signing books in Selfridges. I asked one of the cosplayers who was dressed as Green Arrow (Connor Hawke, not Ollie Queen) sitting opposite us if he could actually use the bow he was carrying around and if he minded going to the Bullring to fire a few bolts at Ginger Minge. He looked at me like I was mental. He's dressed as Green Arrow and I'm the mental one. Figure that out.

Later on, my ex and my youngest daughter turned up, and I was shocked to discover it had cost them fifteen quid to get in. I reckon that's a bit steep. As good as the con was, there's not enough for the casual punter who is just there to buy stuff to look at or do that's worth that much money, and that got to hurt the stallholders if the punters are already a tenner lighter before they go in.

During a fag break (it took ages to get downstairs and outside for a smoke, the expo was three floors up) it was too windy for my poxy lighter to work, so I borrowed a lighter from another 'snoutcast' and got chatting to him about Brum's metal legends Sabbath and Priest, Bill Hicks and how us smokers are treated like criminals amongst other things. Then, on the way back up I found out that I'd been talking to the fairly famous artist Frazer Irving. He's a cool guy.

Generally, the Saturday's trade was steady, not spectacular, but it'd been a fun day, and it's always nice to meet up with the people you only see at these conventions.
After we all packed up for the night, we planned to meet up in town for a meal and a drink, so Heather and I headed back home so we could get changed (the thing I find weird about the Brum comics show is not staying at a hotel, it doesn't feel right going back home after a day at a comics expo) watched a bit of telly (still not sure about BBC1's Merlin) and headed back out to the city centre and met up with Jamie and Theresa, Andy and his old mate Rob, and Keith Burns (like me, a former StripSearcher and he's also the talented artist of Blood Psi) and we all went for for a big-ass burger at the Handmade Burger Company, which is on the canalside just behind the ICC. The meal was great, but the onions in it kept repeating on me and led to me doing foul rotten flesh-smelling mini-burps all evening. It's surprising how popular this makes you. Afterwards we decided to go for a pint or three, so it was up to me as the only Brummie to decide where to go. I plumped for the Tap and Spile, as it was close and doesn't have dance music drowning out any attempt at a conversation. The problem is, however, that particular pub is a bit of a dive. And it takes ages to get served. And you have have to listen to the other patrons talking about snuff movies at the bar while you're waiting. Besides that, though, it was okay and we all had a good evening. Whilst I was in there I bumped into two old schoolmates of mine and was cheered up by their distinct lack of hair. Okay, they might have better careers and all that stuff, but at least I can still ask the barber for 'a little off the top' and not worry about it!

At the end of the evening, Heather offered everyone a lift back to their hotels (she's poorly, bless her, so she decided not to drink and therefore could drive) so we traipsed through the little bit of Brum that most resembles Gotham City (Broad St.) to the car park at Brindleyplace (that's not a typo, it is all one word. When Birmingham City Council rebuild and rebrand stuff, they like to remove the spaces from names. The 'Bullring' is another example) where we were stuck in a logjam of cars. We waited nearly an hour to get out of the sodding place, but we had great fun bitching about all of the other drivers, who really were total cocks. Not so much fun were the rotting flesh belches, which are even less amusing in a car full of people. So, even though it took our friends over an hour to get to what was basically a ten-minute walk away, we were all in good humour (although I am slightly worried over one friend's admission that he fancies Rupert Everett. I think his wife might be, too) and looking forward to the Sunday.

After a very slow start (probably because of the weather. It was pissing it down as usual) Sunday was a good day for us. We sold loads more on the Sunday, very unusual as Saturday tends to be the biggie, normally. So much so, in fact, that all the initial print run of Septic Isle is now all gone. (Don't worry, there's about to be a second printing for our dispatch to shops and websites) I even managed to leave our table for a bit and have a proper look around and buy some tie-in tat as gifts for my offspring. The nice lady at the Forbidden Planet stall liked my T-shirt, it had cartoon versions of the characters from Monkey on it. She wasn't the first. I had comments about my T-shirt all day. I very rarely get nice comments about what I'm wearing from strangers, but I obviously impressed a few of my fellow nerds. Actually, whilst at the Forbidden Planet stall, a man passed by with the copy of Septic Isle he'd just bought, so I asked him if he wanted me to sign it for him. He checked the photo in the back to see if it was actually me that drew it, then he ran off to get a pen, and eventually I signed it. I always dreamed I'd be signing my comic books at Forbidden Planet; This was good enough for me!

I did a bit more sketching on the Sunday, and people seemed genuinely pleased to get my amateurish scribblings with their purchase of Septic. One bloke asked me to do a sketch, so I did him one of Marley, the protagonist from our book. He also asked me to write who it was, sign my name and date it, and he also took a picture of me doing it. As he'd bought our comic, I thought it was the least I could do. I reckon he was going to put the book and sketch on eBay('signed by the artist! photo verification!) I think he'll probably get about 12p. He obviously thinks I'm more famous than I actually am. Which is not very famous at all. Still, good luck to him. I just hope he doesn't spend all of the 12p in one go.

Other highlights from the Sunday include: My mate Jason getting work from DC after a portfolio review. That's great news, he deserves it as he's so talented. I finally got hold of the Frankenstein comic adaptation from Classical Comics, despite my own problems with that particular publisher, because my friend Declan Shalvey illustrated it, and it looks tremendous, and it's a good read, too. Had a chat with the FutureQuake guys, and it was good to see Dave 'Bolt-01'Evans telling off his son for being too nerdy. Bloody right too. The Joker looky-likey was back in a nurse's outfit on Sunday, and the girl who was Harley came back dressed as Lara Croft. she looked nice, apparently, but I wasn't looking, of course. Joining the professional dresser-uppers for the Sunday was a guy dressed as the Brandon Routh Superman. You know, the one with the burgundy cape and the too-small 'S'? He didn't really have the build for Supes, but fair play to him. My girlfriend told me how she shared the lift with him at one point, and at every floor, someone got on and said 'cape not working, then?'. On every floor. Brummie humour. Best in the world. Serves him right for not actually being able to fly.

Trade died a death after about half four so we decided to pack up. Heather went and asked around in the main hall to see if they had any spare boxes for our move. She got some too, so now, when I do move this weekend, I'll be carting my stuff round in boxes with 'Batman figural bank' and 'Sinister Six Vulture med statue' printed on them. Even my house move has become a nerdfest!

Still, it was a good convention. We had a great weekend, but now I have to turn my attentions to packing up all my various shite and shifting it to my new abode, so this'll be my last post for a bit, as I don't know when I'll next be online. I'll see you all on the other side of the move. Ta ra a bit!

My plans for the weekend.

Just as Birmingham gets over a convention for sad, badly dressed, deluded people with no grasp on the real world (The Conservative Party conference) there's another one starting this Saturday October 4th (the Birmingham International Comics Show). I'll be there flogging Septic Isle, alongside the book's writer and publisher Andy Winter, so, if you want to meet either or both of us and want a signed copy, please come along to Millenium Point, Curzon Street, on Saturday or Sunday. I'm going to have a shave for this, so if I can be bothered to do that, the least you can do is turn up. I hate shaving. See you there, hopefully.

Interview!

Just a quick post to draw your attention to an interview Andy Winter and I did for our forthcoming book (it's out in early November). The interview's on Comics Bulletin, and you can find it here. I actually sound quite intelligent and lucid for once; I think the interviewer, Kelvin Green, must've caught me in that brief moment of clarity that sometimes happens between the seventh and eighth pints.

And, because Septic Isle is currently in Previews , a lot of websites are now taking pre-orders. You can buy it here at Forbidden Planet International at a very cheap price. Maybe I shouldn't promote the site that's flogging it cheap, but FPI's blog were extremely nice to us in their review of the book, so I'm reciprocating their backscratch.

If you'd prefer to pay full price and get a signed copy, both Andy and myself will be at the Birmingham International Comics Show flogging Septic Isle on October 4th and 5th, which isn't that far away now! I know a couple of the organisers and I've told them all about you and they'd love to see you!

My trip to Bristol part four: Sunday.

It's been a while since the last proper instalment of what I got up to in Bristol, and, to be honest, I can barely remember what happened! But, for all you completists out there, I'll try and do a quick recap so this blog can get back to posts about toilets and Aston Villa and Jimmy Saville impressions, because I know you all love that stuff. So here goes:

Sunday:

There had been a few drinks imbibed the night before, but I wasn't feeling that rough. We walked round to the exhibition hall, and the queue wasn't nearly as long as it was on Saturday. In fact, it was a more relaxed day. We didn't sell as many copies on the Sunday, but trade was nice and steady after a slow start. I do remember having to draw a sketch of The Phantom for a very nice young lad who was waiting very patiently for the artist that did promise him a sketch, but wasn't actually there at that time, so I stepped in and did the honours. he seemed to like it, anyway.
As it was a bit quieter, I could actually leave the stall sometimes and have a bit of a mooch around some of the stalls. I bought my daughters some gifts (My eldest got a manga-type skinny fit T-shirt, my youngest got a Gremlins Gizmo back-pack.), but I didn't really buy myself anything, as my flat is slowly becoming overrun with comics-related crap. I did, however, let my girlfriend talk me into going around the people I knew and getting sketches for her.
My girlfriend noticed that the crowd on the Sunday tended to be couples. Saturday was mostly blokes on their own, or cosplaying girls in groups, but not very many couples. What this says about the married or attached geek is beyond me, so I won't pass any comment at all. Strange, I know.
The thing that struck me about this particular Bristol Comic Expo was the atmosphere. There seemed to be more of a buzz this year than there has been in previous years, and it was generally a joy to be present to experience it.
Anyway, Andy and I stuck around until about half-four, and by then, it was dying off, so Heather and I bade our farewells and, seeing as our trains weren't due until six, headed to the local pub (The Reckless Engineer) for a bit of the hair of the dog. In fact, I'd had so much hair of the dog that weekend I was beginning to cough up hairballs! The thing I've noticed about that particular boozer on Comic Expo weekends is that every time I go in there, no matter what time of the day it is, Simon Bisley is in there. Without fail.
Anyway, after a slow pint, I carried my extremely heavy bag up to Temple Meads, kissed goodbye to my girlfriend and got on a train with some very pissed rugby fans (who luckily buggered off to another coach) and headed back to Brum, weary but happy, because it had been a fantastic weekend. Thanks to all the folks I spent time with there for making it such a great time.

Right, normal business will resume soon, I promise!

My trip to Bristol part 3: Socks.

Hiya. I was going to write the last part of the Bristol trilogy, but I've just got back from 'that London' where I've been for the last couple of days as part of my 'birthday week' celebrations, so I'm totally shagged out and therfore can't be arsed to type anything substantial (I suppose it cold be argued that I never write anything substantial!), but I did find a video on YouTube of those Scottish socks that I referred to in my last post. You can see the Moonface stand at the very beginning, and if you watch carefully you can see me disappearing off sharpish for my tactical fag. (I checked, it's about 14 seconds in at the far left of the picture) You can also see Hattie Jacques wearing a Superman T-shirt in the bottom right of the screen at about 36 seconds in. You can see now how ludicrous the whole thing was,and why I wanted no part of it whatsoever!

My trip to Bristol part two: Saturday

The weather had sorted itself out by Saturday morning and it was an extremely sunny day. I got to the Commonwealth rooms (where the con was being held) about half-nine and already the queue was all the way down to the bottom of the street. None of that queueing for me, as I was an exhibitor, so I joined the much smaller queue of other exhibitors and waited to get my pass. In the queue I met Hunt Emerson and Tony Bennett (from Knockabout Press) and shot the breeze with them as we waited to get our passes. This was organised very haphazardly, and I ended up with a pass that just said 'Temporary Pass' written on it in biro.(Actually, it just said 'Tempy Pass') But, I got in, and met up with Andy Winter and got ready to launch our book Septic Isle. Our table was directly opposite the Forbidden Planet stall/toyshop, and we were at the end of the aisle, and it was a fantastic spot.

We had a good day. Septic Isle was selling very well, Andy and I were signing books all day, and I've never been asked for so many sketches before. I think, over the weekend, I did a couple of Marley (Our book's hero, as it were), a Sontaran from Doctor Who, The Phantom, Conan, Judge Dredd, Superman, and a few more I can't remember. I do remember how stained my hands were because of the inks from the pens I was using, though! A tip for budding artists out there; Don't buy those 99p black felt tips from WH Smith. they lose their point after about five minutes and they leak all over your fingers!

Andy and I at the Moonface Press table. Note the Aston Villa wristband, which, apparently, is a fashion faux-pas according to my girlfriend. A fashion faux-pas? At a comics convention?! Strange, I know!

The hall was hotter and sweatier than Lucifer's balls, and though it was just about bearable by where we were (we were by a door) at the back of the hall it was roasting, and there was a lot of sweating, judging by the funky aroma at the rear of the hall. We were kept hydrated by my lovely lady, who kept bringing us water, bless her! And I know this doesn't sound like me, pessimistic sod that I am, but everyone I met at the table were really nice, including the four really nice Muslim girls who each bought a copy of Septic Isle because of its anti-Nazi/BNP stance, but then me and Andy started worrying that the sex scenes, swearing and extreme violence might offend them, and we'd forgotten to warn them about it. oops!

Heather had devised an excellent escape plan for herself by inviting her friend Jane down to a)meet me and b) rescue her for lunch for an hour or so. I wish I'd thought of something similar but I've not got any friends! I did manage to escape for a bit and had a drink (hair of the dog; still a bit rough from our rainy drinking session the night before) with my girlfriend and her mate. This drew stares of astonishment from most of the punters because it was weird that a bloke emerging from that hall actually knows some women.

Also, as usual at these things, the costumed types turned up. There was a garrison of Star Wars stormtroopers accompanied by a Boba Fett, a Snowtrooper, a Death Star Gunner, and a big Biker Scout. They were a very game bunch, posing for photos and raising money for charity and they must've been sweating buckets under all that armour. Then there were the Cosplayers, mostly teenage girls (though there were some lads doing it too) dressed up as their favourite manga/anime character. I found some of the costumes a bit inappropriate for fourteen year-olds to be wearing, I'd never let my daughter wear that kind of gear, but then that's me probably being out of step with what kids are like these days. Also, I must mention the one girl (I think it was a girl, anyway) dressed as a polar bear, or a snow-wolf or whatever (just imagine a big white furry animal thing with a big head) it shows dedication to walk around in the oven that was Bristol Commonwealth Rooms covered in fur. Especially when most people looking at you don't even know what you're supposed to be dressed as. There weren't many people dressed as actual superheroes. There was an Elektra hanging with the Cosplayers, but that was about it. Actually, at one point Kev Sutherland accosted three of these Cosplayers by our table, there was Elektra, a girl dressed as what appeared to be a giant Warhammery tank thing with knives for fingers, and another general Japanesey type costume and asked them if they wanted to take part in a video he was making. He set up the camera on our table, put on a Benny Hawkins-style woolly hat and two sock puppets on his hands to become his alter-ego 'The Scottish Falsetto Sock-Puppet Theatre' then he explained to the girls that he would sing 'my name is...' and that they had to shout out who they were dressed as. Then he said(in a decidedly Sid James kinda way) 'I'll take you one at a time'. So then he proceeds to play out this patently ridiculous act three times in a row, while me and Andy look on wondering how weirder the day was going to get. I was worried I might get roped in, so I buggered off for a tactical fag. I had a T-shirt on that had the 70s Batman comics logo on it. So, while I was outside smoking and waiting for the ridiculousness to end, a lady photojournalist said to me 'Excuse me, Batman? Do you have a light?' This is the first time I've ever been accused of being a superhero, but I made some shitty joke about telling her not to call me that name in public, and I lit her ciggie for her before I went back in. Luckily, Elektra, General Japanesy, Warhammery Tank and the Jock Socks had all done one by the time I got back. Phew.

A good thing about these conventions is the fact that you get to meet and catch up with friends that, for one reason or another, you only see at these things. Great folk like Keith Burns (Blood Psi), Declan Shalvey (Hero Killers), Dave Evans(Futurequake) and Steve Tillotson (Banal Pig). Plus you meet and make new friends too. I met Jamie, who is a frequent commenter on this very blog, and his lovely wife Theresa, for the first time and we got along like a house on fire. (Probably a bit too well-see picture!)

Keith, Andy, Declan, Jamie and I all arranged to meet up and go for dinner at the end of the day's festivities, and so we did, after I went back to my hotel and changed my by-now stinky Batman T-shirt for a Kirby Hulk one (my cache of nerdy T-shirts is almost bottomless!) whilst watching the generally disappointing 'Doctor's Daughter' episode of Doctor Who. We went to a pub/restaurant called The Hole In The Wall where it took ages to get served because the poor lad serving us all had a broken arm. I asked him whether they forced him back to work, but he told me he volunteered to come back because he was bored. Jamie then replied something along the lines of 'I understand, well, you can't have a wank, can you?'

The meal was a good laugh, conversation basically consisted of us slagging off each other's favourite movies. well, except for Declan and Heather who agreed on almost everything. We also found out that, in the case of The Shawshank Redemption, Andy was 'on the side of the guards'. We all had to leave when Declan remembered he should've been at the Eagle awards because he was up for a gong for 'best newcomer artist'. We tried to convince him it would be cool and a bit rock n'roll not to turn up, but dec was having none of it, so we all headed to the nearby Ramada hotel where the awards ceremony was being held.

To Declan's relief, we got to the ceremony just as it started, and the rest of the group who weren't nominated for anything stayed at the rear of the hall, by the bar, and watched the ceremony and generally tutted at the announcement of most of the winners. All the people I knew that were nominated for awards came away empty handed. Pity. I think that the Eagles should celebrate British creators more, maybe have a couple of 'international' categories, because most of the time the awards were given to people who weren't there, because they're in the USA, and probably don't even know they've won. Still, it was cool to see legends like Walt Simonson and Dave Gibbons (who weirdly won 'best letterer'; to my knowledge he only letters his own art) up on stage. After a bit of commiserating with some of the losers, (although I didn't buy any of them a consolation drink as it was nearly FOUR QUID a pint!) we all went into the Ramada bar proper and 'shot the shit' with all the other artists, writers and general geeks I know. Random topics of conversation included Jimmy Saville's sexual proclivities and whether 'Lobster Thermidore' is a viable first name for a girl. After spilling most of last pint down my aforementioned Hulk T-shirt (I wasn't that pissed, I was nudged) Heather and I decided to head back to our hotel while it was relatively early. This was one o'clock in the morning!

Me in the Ramada bar, after the spillage incident. Notice how my coat is done up?

Still, it had been a fantastic day.

My trip to Bristol part one: Friday.

I'm extremely exhausted and trying to rehydrate furiously after the fantastic weekend I've just had at this year's comics convention in Bristol. As there's loads to tell, I'm going to split this up into fairly easy-to-digest bits. So here's what happened on the Friday:


Weirdly enough, my train was on time, and my reserved seat was unoccupied! I was sat amidst a group of French students who were extremely annoying. I'd forgotten to pack anything to read on the train journey, but luckily enough, the passenger who had occupied my seat before me had left a copy of The Times behind for me to have a read of. There wasn't a lot of interest in there, but I read the sports pages, and an interesting article about Bob Dylan and put the paper back down. As soon as I did, the French guy opposite me (I was sat in those seats that have a table, so you end up trying to spend the journey avoiding eye contact with the passenger opposite, and also trying to avoid kicking them, probably accidentally, under the table) asked me in broken English if he could read the paper. He took the paper and started laughing at the first story he was looking at, which was about Josef Fritzl. Then, he turned the page and saw a picture of a dying Burmese baby. He thought this was hilarious and held up the paper so all his mates could see it, shouted something out in French and all his mates had a good old laugh at the picture. How sweet.

Not long after, it was time for me to get up and wrestle my (very heavy indeed) bag out of the rack, which was not an easy task as my new Gallic friends had dumped all of their luggage on top of mine, and they all sat there watching me, smirking, as I struggled to get my bag out. In the end I just dumped one student's ridiculously large rucksack (it was virtually a bergen) on the floor to get to mine. He got up out of his seat then.

Bristol Temple Meads station is a fantastic-looking place, and it's how I think all railway stations should look. Especially when you consider that I'd just travelled from Birmingham New Street, a place not suffering from 'sick building syndrome', more like 'terminally ill building syndrome'. My girlfriend's train arrived about a quarter of an hour after mine did, so I hung around outside the station in the glorious sunshine topping up my nicotine levels rather than my tan. She duly arrived (bringing far too much stuff in her suitcase, as usual. It was one of them things with wheels that you can drag along like a tartan shopping trolley, which is a lot easier usually, but the area around the convention and the station has its fair share of cobbled and uneven pavements so you end up with vibration white finger after pulling it along for just five minutes!) and we went along to our hotel and checked in.

Now, for the last few comic-cons I always get there a day early so I can spend some time with two of my oldest friends, Mark and his wife Dawn, who don't live far from Bristol. Dawn came to meet us outside our hotel after she finished work and we all got on a bus to Keynsham, which is where she parks her car (it seems a convoluted way of getting to and from work to me, but apparently this saves her a hell of a lot of money in travel costs) and from there we went to a supermarket to get food and beer, survived a minor anti-freeze incident and then we went on to their lovely home in Saltford where Mark and Dawn cooked me and Heather (that's my lovely girlfriend) a fantastic Mexican meal which we ate in their garden, as the weather was glorious (but the clouds were looking ominous). Although they'd been in the house a while now, it was the first time I'd seen it, and Mark proudly showed us around his garden and the variety of crops he was growing. Ah, bless him.

After dinner, the plan was to head into Bath, where Mark was meeting up with some ex-colleagues of his, so we all piled into Dawn's car (she pulled the short straw and was the designated driver) and headed into Aquae Sulis. On the way the heavens opened; a torrential thunderstorm started to batter the south west. There was sheet lightning, heavy rain, and hailstones, and we couldn't park that close to the pub. Romans might've been shit-hot at building roads, but they're shit at providing parking spaces. This meant that we had to leg it to the pub in what seemed to be a monsoon. We turned up looking like drowned rats. However, after I had tried some fucking disgusting strawberry-based beer, we found out that Mark's ex-colleagues weren't coming as they had problems with their car or something, so we decided to head to Mark's local, a charming little tavern, and it was a lot drier there. In fact, they hadn't had any rain at all yet, so we sat outside with the smokers under an awning and watched the lightning from a distance. It all looked very Wuthering Heights. Then it started to rain again. A lot. The awning under which we all huddled started to fill up with water dramatically. We all looked up at the pregnant bulges above us and decided to make our way inside quickly. One of the other smokers wasn't quick enough and didn't make it in time; the awning collapsed and gave the straggler an almighty shower. Not only did it extinguish his cigarette, it also soaked him completely! Everyone who had made it in time was standing in the doorway of the pub pointed at him and laughed loudly. Then we all laughed at the inappropriately dressed teenage girls who were trudging past drenched. Then later, we saw two other young girls wrestling with each other in a big puddle. Strange.

When the rain died off a bit, the four of us headed back into Brizzle and had a few in the Hatchet. This is apparently Bristol's oldest pub and reputedly has a door covered in human skin. Nice. It's now a rock pub, and when I went there last year Mark and I were accosted by a woman obsessed with the SS and her very tall, very-manly looking transsexual mate. Nothing as weird as that happened this time, we had a few drinks, talked a lot of shite as usual and sang along to Flash by Queen whilst thumping the tables in time with the music. Heather, as usual, got invited to have dinner with my friends at some point in the future. (I think I might've been invited, too. It's one of the things I've noticed about Heather is that she gets invited to dinner by a lot of the people I've introduced her to. They ask her, not me!) Anyway, it was a great night, we headed back to our hotel slightly merry and happy and tired and all set for the Comics Convention the next day.

Mark and I (possibly in a refreshed state) in post-'Flash' celebratory huddle.

Bristol bound.

Hiya! It's been a while since I last posted, I know, but this one is a quicky telling all eight of you that I will be at the Bristol Comic Expo this weekend with Andy Winter flogging our magnum opus Septic Isle. If you can, please come along and show your support, and maybe even buy a copy. We'll be at the Commonwealth Rooms, not far from Bristol Temple Meads station. See you there! I'll post a report on the convention when I get back.

It's Coming part 1: Moods

May might be the month Indiana Jones 4 comes out, but bollocks to that, it's also the month Septic Isle is unleashed at the Bristol Comic Expo. Yes, it's got fights and explosions and social commentary, but I see it as more of a mood piece. For example:

Despair.

Shock!

Inebriation!

Pain!

Terror!

Can you speak up? It's a bit loud in here!!

Lust!

Tension!

I'll post some more images as we get closer to the launch. Watch this space.

BICS

This weekend I attended the BICS (Birmingham International Comics Show), a much improved convention than the one last year. And it was much busier, with people queueing for at least an hour to get in when it first opened. The ThinkTank at Millenium point was a much better venue than the Custard Factory was last year, the convention actually seemed like a proper comics convention and not a church hall-type fete.
I didn't know there were function rooms at the ThinkTank, which is the new home for the old Birmingham Museum of Science and Industry. I thought they'd stick all the tables in and around the exhibition, and I was dreading our table being by the exhibit which is a giant model of a colon, which would send out the wrong impression of our comics!
I spent most of Saturday manning the MC2 table, and catching up with the bods I'd not seen since the Bristol Expo. I left early to watch the England footy match (wish I hadn't-what a shit game!) then I went back out to meet up with the other Mc2-ers at the 'official' bar for the event, which was Bennetts, a pub that used to be a bank on Bennett's Hill. Just as it was getting warmed up, though, they decided to call time, so there was a mad exodus of comics creators and fans across the road to a pub called the Briar Rose. Afterwards we went back to the Britannia Hotel and had a few more in there.
I spent most of the night drinking with John McCrea, and meeting a few new people, at one point I seemed to be surrounded by everyone from Northern Ireland who had anything to do with comics. This isn't a bad thing, as a good time was had by all.
What spoilt it was the two hour wait for a taxi when I left. I'd forgotten it was Eid, so most Muslim taxi drivers weren't at work, so there were less taxis. I didn't get home until five in the morning. So, subsequently, I slept in 'til late, and didn't bother going to the con on Sunday, as I wouldn't have got there until about three, and I felt as rough as a badger's ballbag anyway.
I'm just hoping there'll be another Comics Show next year. I was talking to Shane Chebsey, one of the organisers, on the night, and he told me that they can't afford to do it again next year, unless they get a sponsorship for the event. Let's hope so, it'll be a shame if this event never happens again.

Right, I'm off to catch up on some kip now.

Connections, Carlisle, Conventions and Celebrity Chefs.

Hiya! I know it's been a long time, but I've been a busy lad just lately.
This is my first post from my new computer in my (fairly) new flat, I've just this minute plugged myself back into the 21st century, and I've missed it. My ex is probably very glad that I don't have to usurp her computer throne any longer to make various emails , delete the hundreds of spam emails I've received since I last logged on, use it for various comicky/arty reasons, or generally take up space in her living room; space that she fought hard for by fucking me off in the first place!

I've just come back from a trip to Carlisle, which is a great looking city (old fashioned stone built houses, twisty streets and a castle) but of a night, filled up with the same pissed-up wankers you get in any town centre, and there were rather a lot of coppers about. I thought Cardiff had Plod-overload the other week, but Carlisle was like Mega-City One in comparison. (I think the impending visit of Millwall F.C. to the local footie stadium might've had something to do with it, though.) Weirdest sight of the weekend was four Policemen interrogating a dwarf on the Carlisle Road, outside the hotel I was sleeping in. Although I wasn't actually sleeping at the time, I was outside, staring at four burly coppers questioning a PORG.
Ah, the hotel! Wasn't it lovely? Well, no, actually. The toilet made this noise whenever you flushed it that put me in mind of the noise a Harrier VTOL might make whenever it takes off. It was this loud 'BOOOOM!!!' which I was certain was waking everyone else up in the city of Carlisle, never mind the next room!
As I was going out with a nice young lady, I thought I'd make an effort and actually iron my shirt. I know! Crazy behaviour!! As this hotel was shit, there was no iron or ironing board in my room, but there was a leaflet in my room telling me about the special 'ironing room' which was on the second floor. I walk up the stairs, clutching my crumpled shirt, towards the ironing room, imagining a pressing paradise, rows and rows of ironing boards, hundreds of young professionals, like me (okay, not like me, then!) ironing their garments with a beatific smile plastered all over their boatraces, the combined outpourings of steam turning the second floor of the hotel into a sauna...
Let's say the reality didn't match up. the ironing room was a windowless room about the same size as the bedrooms, with a smattering of litter on the floor, unheated (it was bloody cold) with one ironing board and battered-looking iron in it. It has to be the most soul-destroying room in the whole world .(Actually, Birmingham City's trophy room is probably worse, but seeing as no-one has ever needed to go in there, we'll never know.) I quickly ironed my shirt and got out of there before the Devil realised I was trespassing on his property and try to claim my eternal soul as compensation. It worked, anyway, as the afore-mentioned evening with the young lady was a great success.
The weekend was nearly ruined by the British Rail network returning to form after lulling me into a false sense of security with a hassle-free journey up, with a return journey that took twice as long, and an enforced connection because they decided not to stop at Birmingham New Street anymore. I can't really blame them for this, it is a shithole, but I've got no choice, I have to disembark there! So, I had to get off at Stafford and wait half-an-hour to catch a train that did stop at my station. While waiting, I went outside the station for a cigarette (it had been at least five hours since my last one) and noticed that the bloke smoking a fag next to me was none other than celebrity chef Paul Rankin (the longish-haired Irish one who sometimes has a goatee). He got on the next train as well, and got off in Wolverhampton. The lady in the seat behind me asked her friend "Isn't that that chef? Irish one off of Ready, Steady, Cook? Thought so. You'd think he'd travel First Class, money he's got!" He was only going one stop!! He wouldn't have had enough time for a cup of tea, let alone any of the other treats First Class has to offer! Silly woman! Then I remembered we were in Wolverhampton, and there's more brains in a butcher's sink than there is in the whole town (sorry, it's a city, now, isn't it?) of Wolvo.

Anyway, I'm home now.

Next weekend is the Birmingham International Comics Show (BICS) at Millennium Point, Curzon Street, funnily enough, here in Birmingham. I'll be there at the MC2 table, trying to flog our new comic Ghosts , which I didn't contribute to, as I'm busy with Septic Isle, still (I'll post some more images from that as soon as I get this sodding new computer to recognise my old scanner. Don't want to buy a new one as it's an A3 one, and them are dear!) If you can come along, please do, as the guests include Mike Mignola, Kevin Nowlan and one of my all time faves Mick McMahon, who I reckon draws the definitive Dredd, and doesn't do many conventions, so it's worth checking out. We need this convention to be a success! Not least because I know how much work the organisers are putting in! Come and meet me-I'll be the four-eyed one sweating out a hangover at the Midlands Comics Collective table (found out today that there exists a Manchester Comix Collective! First they pinch our big wheel, and now this!) and buy one of our books. You could purchase the ones I'm in!! See you there!

It's amazing how quickly sitting here typing gets boring. Not missing it anymore!)

What I Did At The Weekend, by Mick, aged very nearly 33.

As you know, I've been in Bristol all weekend, for the comics convention, and it was a great weekend. A bit weird sometimes, but fun.

FRIDAY
I got there Friday afternoon, checked into my rather posh hotel (I'd got my tickets at a special price, it was £59 a night rather than the £139 it said a room was going to cost on the sign behind the counter), and as is usual in every hotel I've stayed in, the receptionist was a foreigner with a heavy accent. (Probably because a lot of the hotels I have stayed in have been abroad!) This time she was French, she gave me my key said I was in room 401 and that I was on the fourth floor. What I heard though, because of her accent, was 'feurce' floor, so I went to the first floor wondering why room 401 wasn't there. The room number itself should've give me a clue. Ah well, I found it in the end.
The night was spent with my old schoolmate Mark, (who defected from the People's Republic Of Birmingham to live in Brizzle), his wife, and her friend. The ladies left us in a rocker's pub, called The Hatchet (which, according to Mark, has a door which is covered in human skin. It's a pub which dates back to the 1600s, apparently, and they used the hides of flayed pirates. The door itself doesn't look like human skin, it does look all gnarled and black, but who knows what happens to human skin after four centuries?) while they buggered off to somewhere civilised.
Whilst in there, a woman latched on to us and between her rants at other patrons of the boozer told us all about her sexual fetish for SS uniforms and Hentai. Later on, she introduced us to her friend, whose name I didn't catch, but it was a very tall transsexual, with giant shoes on, making him/her seem even taller. A seven-foot tall bloke with tits and a shocking pink dress on certainly sticks in the memory. At this point, the ladies came and got us, with a strange look on their faces that said 'What the fuck's going on?'
We then went to the Academy to see Mark Ronson, and if you like that sort of thing, it's the sort of thing you'll like, but it was alright, not really my cup of tea, but there was beer there and gyrating females, so the time passed reasonably pleasantly enough.
Got back to the hotel at around two in the morning, hotel bar was closed, so I went up to the room and watched the end of Theatre Of Blood, in which Vincent Price forces Robert Morley to eat his poodles in a big pie, and Diana Rigg dresses up in a ginger afro wig and a stick-on 'cockduster' moustache. It's brilliant.

SATURDAY

Got to the convention hall at about 11.30, had to wait to get my Exhibitor's Pass, but got in and sat down at the Midlands Comics Collective table, which was directly opposite a Dalek. It was a proper dalek from the TV show, and it moved around and said stuff and frightened children. At one point, the bloke operating it got out, and let kids gathered around the stall have a go on his microphone/headset thing that you speak into, and the dalek says it out loud in a Daleky voice, and his lights all blink and stuff. A couple of kids said 'exterminate!', one just said his own name out loud, but one kid grabbed hold of the mike and made the Dalek shout "Doctor Who Is An Arsehole!" Made me laugh for a good while, that did. It's the kind of rich dialogue that is sadly lacking in the so-far lacklustre third series. Because we were directly opposite a dalek, mostly all I saw while I was at the table, were people with their backs to me, taking pictures of the dalek, or pictures of their mate draped across the thing. Subsequently, they weren't looking at our books. Saying that though, the hall was packed, numbers were up significantly on last year, and we sold far more copies than we did at the Birmingham show in December.
Also, this year, people in costumes were let in for free. There were 'Cosplayers', (a manga/anime thing) Star Wars characters (all bad guys-Boba Fett, Vader,Biker scouts, stormtroopers, etc., The SS fetish lady from the night before would've had a field day if she'd have turned up, which, thankfully, she didn't.) There was a young lady on the stall behind ours dressed as the Black Cat from Spider-Man, which was nice.There was a half-woman/half-fox thing, a bloke in a silver gimp suit and carrying a silver surfboard (I assume he was being Norrin Radd) which was quite impressive, as it was exceedingly hot in there, and his knackers must've been swimming. For all the good costumes, though, there are some that let the side down, such as a Nightcrawler whose face was only half-blue. There was a lad carrying round a big crucifix wrapped in bandages, and no-one I asked about it knew what it was supposed to be. Considering I was surrounded by comics creators and comics fans, doing something no-one had heard of is some achievement. I suppose it might've been his look, and he carries around a big crucifix all the time.
When I wasn't at the table, I went round to the stalls of the people I know and have worked with, to catch up and get my comp copies of the books I'm in. Everyone seemed to be doing alright, selling a few books, and having a good time.
In the evening, A few of us from the Collective went for a Chinese meal with Jemima and Dave from Hi8us, the current batch of StripSearchers, and John McCrea, Hunt Emerson, and Tony Bennett (not the crooner, the bloke who runs Knockabout Press), so there were over twenty of us. we went to a restaurant next to the Old Vic called Cathay Rendezvous, which has hundreds of pictures inside of celebrity patrons they've had, politicians, film stars, footballers, thesps, musicians have all been in there. Funnily enough, they didn't want my photo. A great time was had, anyway. This would turn out to be the only proper meal I'd eat all weekend, as I mostly lived on liquids and fags. Thanks, Hi8us!!
We went back to the Ramada hotel, which was hosting the Eagle awards, had a little chat with Glenn Fabry (I later managed to cadge a fag from him as well) saw little random bits of the Eurovision song contest, such as a big silver man, and some French blokes running on the spot (they'll probably be checking me into my hotel next year) I had a theological argument with a Christian, in which we amicably agreed to differ. I am right, though. Congratulated Andy and Dec, who had just won an Eagle award for Hero Killers, I kept getting asked by Tony Bennett to tell mates of his a joke. He was well impressed by my vast repertoire of low quality humourous stories. I bumped into Mike Molcher, who used to publish the now sadly defunct The End Is Nigh, and sat and drank with him and Simon Bisley, and I also vaguely remember drawing a picture of Nightwing on a girl's back. She asked me to! I wasn't wilfully scribbling members of the New Teen Titans on complete strangers all night. I had to try and remember what Nightwing looked like, and seeing as I'd been imbibing all night, it probably wasn't my best ever effort. If the girl is reading this, I'm sorry. I'll be practising drawing Dick Grayson all year, now, and I'll be ready next May! (I was telling Dan Cox, who wrote Why Can't I Be You? for me, about this episode of me scribbling on females, and he remarked how 'Rock n'roll' it was. I said it would only be Rock n'Roll if I'd scribbled on her front rather than her back. It's a start, I suppose.)
It got late very quickly, and because I wasn't a resident of the hotel, I had to go up to people I didn't know and ask them if they'd get me a drink. Two very nice married ladies got me drinks, and they also refused to let me pay for them. Which was nice. I got back to my hotel as dawn was breaking, around half-five.

SUNDAY

I spent a lot of Sunday feeling as rough as a badger's ballbag, but we managed to sell a few more copies. I bought my eldest a manga-type T-shirt, and my youngest an Alien facehugger plush. That might sound weird, but it is something she's wanted for ages. Alright, it is weird. Saw the guys from Doctor Who dismantle the dalek and put it in the back of an averaged-sized car whilst I was outside having a smoke. Its head was on the passenger seat. What was funny, though, is that there was a car waiting to park behind them, they had nothing to do with the convention, and I was wondering what they thought of a bloke spending ages putting bits of dalek into his car, wasting their time. Simon Bisley was next to me, having a fag and said "Even in bits it still fucking freaks me out." Now, Simon is built like a brick shithouse, I wouldn't have thought anything would intimidate him.
I left the con to go home at around three o'clock, said ta-ra to everyone, and stood waiting for my slightly delayed train (Wildfowl on the line, apparently. Bloody Virgin trains.) standing next to the half-woman/half-fox type-thing who was getting the train home in full costume. I don't think I saw her real face at all over the weekend. That's dedication, that is. (There's a picture of her on the MC2 mySpace, I think. It's part of the slideshow on there.I think my left hand makes an appearance in one of the pics. fame at last!) Spent the train journey home trying not to fall asleep and wake up in Preston, (I'd only slept for about six hours the whole time I was in Brizzle) and trying to use my WAP phone to get the football results, but my phone decided to not work. I got home, looking lke a drowned rat at about half-five. It'd been a good weekend. I might just need a new liver, though.

The Villa drew 2-2, if you're interested.

Hi to all the peeps I met out there, and might read this,(Steve, Ez, Andy, Dec, Ian, Dave, Dan et al) good to see you.

Brizzle 2007.

This Friday I head down to what's locally known as 'Brizzle m'luv' for the Bristol Comic Convention, a weekend where you intend to behave but end up nursing a particularly damaged liver. It's going to be strange for me this year for a number of reasons. It's the first time I'm going without a spouse, as I no longer have one .

(Not strictly true, thinking about it, I've been without her before. It was the time we went as 'StripSearch' graduates, flogging our book 'Stuffed' and it must be the memory loss caused by alcohol at said event. I do remember, however, being asked by John McCrea if I wanted to go to a strip joint with him and Simon Bisley, but I'd drunk far too much by that point, and I don't think John went anyway. Biz probably did, though.But, I digress.)

Also, I'm not there to promote myself as an artist-for-hire. Well, maybe a little bit, but I've got Septic Isle to do, and it's a big job, and it's one I really want to give my full attention to, as it's a fantastic project; one I feel strongly about. (There's a panel from the 'difficult fourth page' of SI to your left, there. I'm now in the middle of pencilling the fifth page.) So I don't want to take on too much extra drawing, but, if the unlikely event of DC offering me megabucks happens, I may have to have a rethink, obviously!

I think I've got three new books on sale at the Con. Mine and Lee Robson's Whole (that sounded rude read aloud!) is in FutureQuake #8, Why Can't I Be You? (with Daniel Cox as writer) finally appears in True Romance Comix (it's only been about two years since I finished drawing it!), and MC2 is making its Brizzle debut, and to celebrate, there's a new mini-comic from the Midlands Comics Collective called Mini-C2, in which my No Such Thing one-pager is in. No doubt some of the older books I've been in will be on sale as well. None of the books I've been in have ever sold out!

I'm going down there a day early because I'm going out with one of my oldest friends, Mark, who lives down there. Apparently, we're going to see Mark Ronson do summat at the Ramshackle night at the Brizzle Academy. I thought he was the dead guitarist from Ziggy & The Spiders, but I've since found out he's that bloke who gets singers I don't like to cover songs by other people I don't like. I've not really heard that much of his stuff, though, so I can't really comment. Might be a laugh.

The weird thing about these conventions (well, at first, anyway) is seeing your heroes pissed up. Finding out that the artists whose drawings you pored over in your formative years are ordinary blokes. Well, mostly, anyway. (I'm thinking of the 'Glenn Fabry has conversation with a toilet door' incident at the Brighton Convention, amongst others) I'm looking forward to find out what we'll all get up to this year, I'm also looking forward to catching up with the people I know, but only see at these events, and trying to cadge a drink off them!

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!!!!!

Super,super,super...Superman!

Hello friends. (Are you my friends? You're not just taking the piss, are you?) Here's a nice little film from those super talented people in Bollywood. (I thought Bollywood was called that because it was in Bombay, but we don't say 'Bombay' anymore, it's 'Mumbai' these days, so surely their film industry must now be called 'Mollywood'. Just a thought.) It's the Indian version of Superman but India's version of Kal-El is a niftier mover than the boring Yank one, especially that morose motherfucker in the latest movie. The Indian Supes has a sidekick that's a lot prettier than Jimmy Olsen, but for some reason, she's dressed as Spidey. It goes on a bit, so just get a flavour of it then skip to the rather excellent fight scene. I love Superman's way-too-large 'S' crest and his half mast trousers with black chelsea boots combination. Great Caesar's ghost!
In other, more personal news, the world famous Nostalgia & Comics store, on Priory Queensway, Birmingham, has, on last time I heard, sold all but one of their copies of the MC2 anthology we've just launched, and they're ordering more. I don't know whether this is good news as I don't know how many copies they had to start with! If they orderded in just two, it's a bit shit, really. It'll be on sale at the Birmingham Comics Show, which is now in a couple of weeks (click on the link in my sidebar), so I'll see you there. If you're coming, of course.