Snow joke and other updates.

Most of the blogs I've looked at today tend to consist of photos of peoples' gardens or streets covered in snow. Yes, it looks pretty, but it's a right royal pain in the arse.

It never ceases to amaze me how unprepared this country is for snow. It happens EVERY FUCKING YEAR, you think we'd have the mechanisms in place to deal with it by now, but no, of course we haven't. We can find untold billions to pay for missiles to rain down on Iraq, or to pay for the Olympics, but when it comes to dealing with snow, we're fucking hopeless. I bet Canada are laughing their bollocks off at us right now. I mean, our capital ground to a complete standstill, no buses, trains or planes at all. The 7/7 bombings never managed that!

This recent snowfall apparently cost the economy an estimated 1.2 billion pounds, and there's more on the way and we might run out of road salt. I'm not an economist, but surely spending a few million quid making sure we can deal with snow and making sure people can get to work and supplies are delivered, etc. will save us billions in the long run.

Still, at least the kids had a nice day off from school.



>Update on the previous post, my recent appearance on local and national news has now only bleeding gone online. See my full bell-endedness in glorious full colour. I apologise in advance for making you listen to Ace Of Base's (note the apostrophe!) 'The Sign'.



> My shoulder's still not brilliant, but it's a lot better, thanks for asking.


>Since Johnny Dixon passed away last week, two more Villa alumni have gone on to play for God's XI. Vic Crowe, former player and later manager of Villa died last week, and Monday saw the passing, at the very young age of 46, of Paul Birch. Birchy's death is particularly sad for me, because he's a player I actually remember, he was part of Graham Taylor's fantastic team of the late Eighties. I remember him marking Inter's Lothar Matthaus out of the game in our 2-0 win over them in the UEFA cup (the less said about the 3-0 defeat at the San Siro in the second leg, the better). I had an old Panini sticker of Birchy on the inside cover of my school hymn book (along with Gordon 'Sid' Cowans and Derek Mountfield and a posh foil sticker of our old round crest) He was a player from the time I used to go down to Villa Park regularly (those days are long gone! Can't afford it these days.) and though it's often claimed falsely that a player always gave 110%, Birchy always did, and that is why the Holte End still sing his name in our version of 'My Old Man'.

Nostalgia ain't what it used to be.

This morning, I watched a 25-year old edition of ITV's The Big Match. ITV 4 have been showing them on Sunday mornings lately, and they showed me what happened in the world of English football exactly 25 years ago. And on this week a quarter of a century ago, Villa (then European cup holders) were playing Graham Taylor's Watford, and Villa were undone by a goal in the fourth minute of injury time. How times have changed! (Villa were undone by a late injury time goal yesterday as well!)

Anyway, I caught myself saying 'Ahh, them were the days', but were they? There's a big 80's revival happening at the moment, there's kids walking around with big 'Frankie' type slogans on T-shirts, Rambo, Rocky and Indiana Jones back in the cinemas. Knight Rider has made a comeback, and the top toys of the time, Transformers and GI Joe, have been or soon will be big Hollywood movies. And, of course, there's Ashes to Ashes on at the moment as well, cashing in on the current clamour for all things eighties. And there was that shit Calvin Harris record.

You see, I remember the eighties as being generally rubbish. Thatcher, Miner's strikes,Mullets, Reagan, Recession, The Falklands, Stock, Aitken, Waterman, the Brixton, Toxteth and Handsworth riots, Careless Whisper, IRA mainland campaigns, Piano-key ties, Greenham Common, Bucks Fizz, The Minipops, Howard's Way and Howard Jones. And that's just the tip of the iceberg. On a personal note, the eighties might've been the decade Villa won the Championship, the European Cup and the Super Cup, but it was also the decade in which we were relegated and we got Deadly Doug back. I did most of my puberty in the eighties, and that was a shit time. Having a squeaky voice and terminal acne is bad enough, but try combining that with having to wear Farah trousers, stonewashed denim jackets and tan leather neckties. Not a good look, especially when topped off with a flat-top haircut. Also, the eighties was the time when my parents split up, so I don't look back on the era that fondly.

But I did live through them, and my memories are first hand. A lot of the kids about now who are re-living the eighties weren't even born in the eighties. People having their first legal pint this year were born in 1990! That makes me feel old. To those people, Michael Jackson's always been a white bloke! Why have they latched onto the '80s? Is it the because the '90s didn't really have an identity?(I recently went to a '90s themed party and I honestly couldn't think of anything to go as, so I just wore an old football shirt. For a so-called comics artist I really do lack imagination! But it proves what a fairly nondescript decade the 90's were.) If the most recognisable star from the 90s is Liam Gallagher, then it really was a shit decade culturally. I really don't see the point of having nostalgia for a decade you weren't around in, and young adults might want to try creating their own cultural movement instead of borrowing one that wasn't that good in the first place.

God, I sound old!

Roll on May 22nd!!

I know today is V.D. day (Valentine's day), but my letterbox was hardly overflowing with cards from sex-starved secret admirers, so I'm going to go off-tangent. Well kind of, because this is sort of about something I love, the Indiana Jones movies. I remember first seeing Raiders Of The Lost Ark at junior school, it was an end of term treat. We all packed into a classroom, sat on desks as well as the chairs, and the blinds closed out the encroaching summer, and we watched the film on one of them new fangled top-loading betamax video recorders. It blew my mind then as an eight year-old, I remember that day very fondly, and now, when I'm well into my thirties, I still love that movie, because it still entertains me as much now as it did then.

(There are things now, though, that mildly bother the thirty-three year old me after repeated viewings- Like, how does Indy know that to avoid being melted by the ghosty/angel/demon things at the end you just have to avoid looking at it? You assume he's read it somewhere, but it's not explained. And when those blokes from the government come to see Indy about a top-secret mission, Dr. Jones just happens to have a big antique book about the Ark of the Covenant under his arm? Or when they decipher the markings on the headpiece to the staff of Ra, we're told that the staff should be 72" tall, yet when Indy uses it, it's at least 18" taller than he is, which means they've bollocksed it up or Harrison Ford isn't much taller than Kenny Baker. I'm letting these things go, though. I don't want to sound too much like a net nerd!)

Anyway, I only bring this up because I saw the trailer for the fourth instalment, I'm excited, now (even though it's got Ray Winstone in it. Kinda sick of looking at his mush for some weird reason, but I'll get over it!) and it's coming out on my Birthday! I just hope George Lucas hasn't brought his 'fix it 'til it's fucked' philosophy to this franchise like he did with Star Wars . Have a butcher's yourself and see what you think:

Another Ton Up, Guys n' Gals!!

Urgherurgherurgh!! Now then, now then, guys n' gals, Sir Jim'll here! As it 'appens, it's Mick's two hundredth post! Urgherurgherurgh. Lovely, lovely, lovely. Now then, now then, now then, I, Sir James of Saville, as is traditional, 'ave fixed it for young Michael to go back in time, as it 'appens, and pick out the best bits of posts 101-199. As if I've got the time, what with me being attacked and 'aving my glasses stolen by a young lady! Stoke Mandeville! I used to be a wrestler, as it 'appens! I could kill people with my bare feet in the old days! These days, I can't get my trainers off, guys n' gals! Women, give you brain damage, they do. If I was thirty years younger, I'd have had her in a Boston crab before you could say 'Jingle Jangle!' Urgherurgherurgh! This first excerpt is from November last year:

"Last night was the launch party/exhibition for the MC2 book . I say party, but unlike every other party I've been to, I didn't vomit."
Hows about that , then, guys n' gals! Vomit! Lovely, lovely, lovely! Next up, from the same month, young Michael treats us to his views on the latest incarnation of Jim'll Bond, as it 'appens:
"Daniel Craig is excellent as 007. The fact that he is not physically the stereotypical Bond means that you don't automatically compare him to Sean Connery, as you do with every other actor who has wielded the Walther.(Like the hair colour was that important anyway. Roger Moore's hair was a kind of sandy brown and Connery's hair depended on what shop he bought it from.)"
Now then, now then, Sir Jimmy 'as never had much time for hairpieces. I've always preferred wearing my hair like Prince Valiant, only longer and whiter and more scruffy, as it 'appens! I reckon toupees give you brain damage, like women do. Urgherurgherurgh! In this next post, also from last November, he has a go at a colleague. Sometimes in your life, young Michael, you have to work with people you hate. Like the Hairy Cornflake, as it 'appens! Beardy get, he was!

"This annoying colleague is a fat bastard. I'm not against overweight people (I'm one myself! It cost me the Bond gig!) but he is fat, and he is a bastard. He substitutes shouting for personality, he substitutes repetition for wit, and he substitutes repetition for wit. He likes bullying the temps, and grabbing other colleagues in bear hugs or half-nelsons. I won't stand for any of that shit. He's an arsehole. A fat sweaty, lazy gobshite whose father should have pulled out early. When he was aimlessly making annoying noises and shouting that same afternoon, I told him to "stick a pie in it" to which he threatened to knock me out. Ooooohh, I'm scared! He's like a fucking pelican ie. all beak. With a flapping bag attached. I'd like to see him try and knock me out, because a)He'd get the sack and b)he'd get my toecap right under his third chin.
Sounds like that young chap needs to lose weight. Now then, now then, it just so 'appens the best way of doing that is to run a marathon. Jingle jangle jewellery! Just ignore the Mars bar they give you afterwards, guys n' gals! Another way of losing the pounds is to avoid meat, as it 'appens:
"Last night I went to a vegetarian curry house. It was full of the people I expect to see at these places. Old hippies. Men (and probablywomen) with beards, sandal wearers, those people with ridiculous Lapp reindeer herder-type wooly hats,and ill-looking young couples who are probably only in there because they were born too late to go on CND marches. Vegetarianism needs to get trendy if it's going to convert people. For every Joaquin Phoenix making it cool you've got a Carla Lane bringing it down again.It was a buffet affair which meant you can have as much sick as you like. The after-effects today were startling, with my stomach being bloated up with gas which has been seeping out in cabbagey bursts every five minutes or so. So further proof to myself, should I need it, that I'm definitely a carnivore."
Tofu gives you brain damage. As do women, as it 'appens. Spend any time with a vegetarian woman and you'll end up wired up to a machine at Stoke Mandeville. Just look at Heather Mills, guys n' gals. She's unbalanced. Sir Jim'll knows how to fix that, four beer mats under the other leg! Urgherurgherurgh! This next excerpt is from December last year, as it 'appens:
"John Barrowman thinks he's the new Tom Cruise but he reminds me of Grandstand's John Inverdale. The direction is also annoying. All those panoramic shots of Cardiff, like it's cool! All those bits where it's slow motion for a few seconds before it returns to normal speed, just to make the gang look cool when they're getting out of their van. Which, incidentally, just makes them look a bit like Scooby-Doo and the Mystery Machine gang."
Sir Jimmy reckons young Barrowman's got the right idea. He doesn't knock about with women, as it 'appens, and he hasn't got brain damage! Sir Jim'll is vindicated! These next few posts are all about Christmas, guys n' gals. Sir Jim'll's been a good lad this year, as it 'appens, and I'm hoping for a brand new shell suit and a few big cubans. The cigars, I mean! Give you lung damage! Urgherurgherurgh!
"I did some Xmas shopping today, and the bastard who first coined the phrase 'goodwill to all men' obviously never tried to buy any presents in Argos on any Saturday in December.

"Like most things, I blame my indifference to Christmas on my parents. My Dad would not let me and my brothers believe in Father Christmas. He said, and I'm paraphrasing; "I work fucking hard all year to pay for your presents, and I'm not letting some imaginary fat cunt from Lapland get all the glory!" He's got a point, but I reckon it took a little of the magic away from the festivities."

"Christmas also has other pitfalls, i.e. relatives. There are the ones that don't make any contact at all and upset you with their indifference to you at this time of year. At the other end of the scale there are those who you wish would just fuck off and leave you alone. Those people you are related to because your partner is related to them, and even she doesn't particularly like them, either, but we feel obliged to either go to their houses or let them come to ours. I know it sounds ungrateful, as they do want to see us and give us our gifts, but I could really do without listening to my Mother-In-Law fart loudly on Boxing Day. Saying that, I could really do without listening to my Mother-In-Law at all. "

No mother in the world could hold a candle to the Duchess, god rest 'er. Still, young Michael is bein' a bit cheeky, guys n' gals, having a go at his family, specially at Christmas time. In his next post, from January, Mick tells us about his New Year resolutions. My resolution is to get a new pair of glasses, because that brain-damaging bitch pinched mine!
"Every year I make the same resolutions ie. Eat less pies and pack up the fags (cigarettes, if you're American) but I'm still a 20-a-day man, and I smoke like a chimney. So this year, I'm making some resolutions I can keep."
Sir Jim'll is thinking about giving up the Cubans, but I reckon I'll just give up the cigars instead! Jingle Jangle! This next post is again about a weird colleague. Did I tell you about DLT? Urgherurgherurgh! Pipe smoking bastard! Pipes give you brain damage, as it 'appens!
His name is John, and he has this habit of suddenly breaking into song for no reason. He's not just singing along to the shitty radio. He's singing African songs. Out loud. Which is unsettling, because it means he is enjoying himself. Yesterday, I was putting my water bottle back into my locker after lunch, and, unbeknownst to me, John was right behind me, and , unexpectedly, started shouting ANC-type chants. It scared the living shit out of me. The last thing I need at the moment is a member of Ladysmith Black Mambazo with dreams of a solo career practicing down my earhole."
Now then, now then, as it 'appens, this next post is about women. You know what I think about them:
" Still, I suppose it gives us something new to argue about, other than the usual money and sex disagreements. I think she charges me too much."
I told you, young Michael, they give you brain damage! You want to stay sane, you be like me! Urgherurgherurgh!! Jingle jangle jewellery! Lovely, lovely, lovely! This is the age of the train!!
"I might have mentioned that I'm in a book called MC2 , which is out now in most bookshops of quality. You just have to look very hard for it. It was weird seeing it in Waterstone's the other weekend. A story I've written and drawn is on sale in Waterstone's! It was tucked in between a history of Wonder Woman and a book on old Commando comic strips, but even so, it felt nice. I wonder if Salman Rushdie feels the same when he's in Waterstone's with his bodyguard and sees Midnight's Children? I bet he has a wry smile under his fake beard."
As it 'appens, Sir Jim'll tried reading Midnight's Children, but it just so 'appens it wasn't about some geezer called Midnight who fixes it for boy scouts to eat ice-cream on a roller coaster, so I binned it before it gave me brain damage. Staying on the literary theme, Mick reflects on his losing the Jane Eyre comic gig:
"I'm thinking of doing a sequel to it, called Eyre 2: Bertha's Revenge, when the mental woman in the loft comes back as a zombie and starts eating the household staff, until Rochester trips her up with his white stick and then Jane dashes her brains out with a copy of Gulliver's Travels.I think it's got legs, that idea...."
Less chance of brain damage if they've been dashed out! Jingle jangle! In this next post, guys n' gals Mick again goes on about his bloody colleagues. He should just wrestle 'em, like that time I got DLT in a half-nelson and knocked that pipe out of his bearded gob! Urgherurgherurgh!
Recently, at my shitty job, we've had half-a-dozen Poles and a Czech start work, and so far, I've got no problem with them. They work hard, don't annoy me and keep themselves to themselves. If only my English colleagues were the same. One of my old (English) colleagues said to me :"We're being invaded by Poland! It's supposed to be the other way round!"I told him that it wasn't us that invaded Poland, it was the Third Reich, but, judging by his comments, he was probably on Hitler's side. "
Hitler, he was a bad fella, guys n' gals. Probably brain damaged, as it 'appens, now in this next post, young Michael has a go at the Holy Roman Empire:
"If it wasn't for the Roman Catholic stance on contraception, there wouldn't be so many unwanted children in the first place, and if you ask me, getting vulnerable children away from the Catholic church can only be a good thing. Remember, the current Pope tried to hush up all the claims of sexual abuse in Catholic institutions.They say Homosexuality isn't natural, yet they deny Jesus had any kind of sexual relationship with women. they forbid their Priests from having sex or getting married. This tells me that they think men having sex with women is bad. You'd think they'd be all for homosexuality.Think about it. Jesus knocked about with twelve geezers who were all 'fishers of men'. The only woman Christ loved was Madonna. If all that washing of feet stuff doesn't have a gay subtext, then my uncle wasn't Mr. Gay UK!"
Sir Jimmy's thinking about becoming a priest,as it 'appens, if it keeps you away from ladies. I wonder if they'd let me wear a shell suit? Jingle jangle! Archbishop Sir Jim'll of Saville MBE! Urgherurgherurgh! This next post is from February, where he kinda sticks to the theme of contraception. Not for Sir Jimmy! Like having a bath with your socks on, guys n' gals!
"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."

Now then, now then, Mick is on the subject of romance:
"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.

How's about that then! I know I sound like a stuck record (you'd get a few of them on a certain beardy DJ's amateurish radio show, as it 'appens!) but women are bad for your brain. Sticking on the subject of brain damage, guys n' gals, young Michael next goes on about those brain damaged people who want to contact the dead. Not like me, I just sit in the Duchess' room for a bit!
'Psychics' are shysters. You've just got to look at Derek Acorah. 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.
Is there anybody there? No, just Sir Jim'll! Urgherurgherurgh!! This next post is from March, where Michael has a go at charity, as it 'appens!
"I thought the humour on this year's Comic Relief was in very bad taste. Those sketches based in Africa just weren't funny. What we want is more Mr. Bean!"
Now then, now then, it just so 'appens raising money for charity is hard work. How many marathons has young Michael ran? Exactly! If he starts mouthing off like that round me, guys n' gals, I'll give him brain damage! He's not listening to me, anyway, as this next post is about his attempts to meet women! Urgherurgherurgh!!
"Having a nose around this dating site, all the people on there have a list of their qualities on their profiles. Nearly all of them say 'Confident, Outgoing, Intelligent', the usual bollocks. If that is the case then, why do they have to use online dating to meet people? Some people are that confident that they don't even post their picture on their profile! The rest of their profile is so astounding that I was already in love with them, so seeing what they look like is irrelevant.Bollocks. What they probably look like is an elephant. (See what I did there? Rhyming!)"
Now then, what they probably are, is brain-damaged. This next post is about the end of Lent, as it 'appens!
"Happy Easter. The time we remember the pain and suffering and violent death of Jesus as he sacrificed himself to save us by eating Creme Eggs. "
I prefer marathons! Urgherurgherurgh!!! Oh, hang on, they're called 'Snickers' these days, aren't they? This next bit, as it 'appens, is from May, and young Mick is reflecting on how attractive he is to the ladies. What does Sir Jim'll keep saying to you, Mick?! Urgherurgherurgh!!
"I think, when it comes to how I look, I'm kind of in the Coca-Cola championship in the English football league of looks, up there with the Ipswich Towns and Southamptons (also, quite aptly, those teams' glory days are long behind them!) not up there with the Man Uniteds or Arsenals, but not nearly as ugly as the Walsalls or the Leyton Orients."
Sir Jim'll's not a fan of football. All them hooligan guys n' gals with brain damage. Wrestling's my game! Jingle jangle! Now, this next post is about bloody dating again. I reckon it's too late for young Michael, the damage is irreversible by now, as it 'appens.
"I didn't have the time to tell you about the four or five really sexually explicit messages I received through a dating site from a mad woman from Worcester. She went into really graphic detail (it was almost like a biology lesson) about the things she was going to do to me. Seeing as a lot of it involved shoving things into my anus, I politely declined her advances.
Worcester's too far away, anyway! Can you imagine having to walk back with a sore arse?"
Worcester's about 25 miles away from where Michael lives, that's nearly a marathon. Sore arse or not, a foil blanket and a Mars bar'll sort you out! Urgherurgherurgh!! This next post was from July and it got him into a lot of trouble from middle-aged brain-damaged women!
"He is a national treasure and should be knighted forthwith. We knight tossers like Cliff Richard instead, a bloke who made a wet day at Wimbledon even worse!"
Cliff's a good bloke, as it 'appens, does a lot for charity, like me, guys n' gals. His bag stinks, but he's alright, as it 'appens. Much better than Dave Lee Travis, as it 'appens! Now then, now then, now then, this next post is from August, and young Michael regales us with tales from Wales: Jingle jangle! That rhymed! Sir Jim'll's not just a pretty face! Urgherurgherurgh!!
"Whoever said all brides are beautiful obviously didn't see some of the brides-to-be I witnessed. Bloody hell. In one bar, there was one extremely rough-looking obese woman wearing L-plates and a veil (so I assume she was the bride to be) carrying a giant inflatable penis, 'dancing' and singing 'Don't you wish your girlfriend was hot like me?'. The irony was obviously lost on her. Unless she was genuinely too warm."
I'm getting the brain machine at Stoke Mandeville ready, as it 'appens! Young Master Trimble is too far gone! Urgherurgherurgh!! Now then, now then, this next post is from September, where he bangs on about his so-called sartorial elegance:
Maybe they should do another, similar documentary about another misunderstood minority in this country called He's A Thoroughly Modern Nerd, where I could talk about how society stereotypes me and thinks I'm oppressed, and think I'm forced to wear strange clothes, clothes like my rather cool Silver Surfer t-shirt.
You should stick to shell suits, like Sir Jimmy. Now then, now then, seeing as you're a nerd, Michael, I've got a suit with Superman all up the front of it, as it 'appens, if you want to borrow it. This next post is from October, and it's about an ironing room in Carlisle, as it 'appens:
"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.)"
Apparently, shitting on the City gives you brain damage! Urgherurgherurgh!! This one's about chocolate, also from October, as it 'appens:
" One thing that's always bothered me is the fact that Cadbury's make a big deal of the fact that there's a glass and a half of milk in every bar, but exactly how much is a 'glass'? What recognised system of weights and measures are they using to quantify the amount of milk used? Maybe they should change it to 'a petri dish and a half of salmonella in at least 10% of our bars'."
Now they're not called Marathons anyore, I won't eat 'em, guys n'gals. My favourite choccy bar is now the Mars bar you get after the London marathon, as it 'appens. Tastes like victory!We're virtually up to date, now, this is from a post from this November:
"Many months ago, I did a strip for the Jonas Moore people (a comic strip, I must add. Me taking my clothes off will not impress anybody, especially potential employers)"
I had to strip down to my trunks when I was a wrestler. Never did me any harm. Urgherurgherurgherurgherurgherurgherurgh!!!! How's about that, then, I've fixed it for young Michael and yourselves to look over the last hundred posts. thanks for sticking around, guys n' gals! Hopefully it's not given you brain damage, but maybe the next hundred will! Jingle Jangle!

Now then, now then, If you're stuck for Christmas gift ideas, guys n' gals, why don't you buy 'em my Christmas single, 'Jimmy Jangle' which I've re-released as it 'appens, all profits go to Stoke Mandeville. Watch the video film for it below, guys n' gals! So until next time, Urgherurgherurgherurgh!!

Old Faces.

I was nagged by an old friend of mine (old in the sense that I've known him for twenty-two years, not old in the sense that he has no hair or pisses himself. Actually, he does do that, but not because he's old!) to join Facebook. In a country where we (quite rightly) generally don't want the government (or anybody else for that matter) to keep records of all our personal details or have I.D. cards, a lot of us are quite happy to put a lot of our details on one of the world's most popular websites for anyone to have a look at!
Anyway, I've got a profile on there, and I've been mooching about looking up old schoolmates and stuff. The strange thing about seeing your old classmates is seeing how much they've aged in the years since I last walked out of the gates of Handsworth Grammar school for boys. The ones I've kept in touch with don't seem to have aged that much, but that's probably because I see them fairly regularly. The ones I haven't seen all tend to be balding, or grey, or fat. Sometimes, I look at myself in the mirror and think I look old, that it's my dad looking back at me, only he's wearing glasses, but I don't feel that old anymore because I've seen what the ravages of time have done to the lads I went to school with!

Actually, thinking about it, these people probably think the same about me if they were to see my profile!

Anyway, I'm just getting used to the whole etiquette of Facebook. For example, I've been informed that if someone writes on your wall, replying to them on your own wall and not on theirs is a social faux pas tantamount to fisting someone to death at your pool party. And I've not really took part in all the giving of 'gifts' or nominating people for certain awards that my friends take part in. I will do, but I've been busy with other stuff (like drawing dirty pictures for that comic book I'm doing at the moment) so, if you're reading this and you've got the hump because I've not got round to nominating you as 'the person most likely to party like a rock star', sorry. I will do, one day. I'm just worried that fucking about on facebook will prove as addictive as heroin or wanking and it will take over all of my spare time, and I can't have that as I've got deadlines to meet and bills to pay.
It's bad enough trying to do that with the aforementioned addictions to wanking and heroin.

Bullying! The Musical!

Monday was one of those nights when it's rubbish being a parent. My youngest is leaving primary school and will be going to what is called 'big school' . To celebrate this fact, her school put on a play that I was emotionally blackmailed into watching. The play was a cautionary taleabout kids going to secondary school and gettting sucked into gang culture and bullying. It was a musical!
My daughter was only in the choir, meaning she was shoved up the side of the hall where I could hardly see her anyway. I went with my other daughter, who thinks she's too cool for this kind of stuff, but if I have to sit through it, so does she. I'm an equal opportunities parent. It pissed down on the way, so I was soaked before I got there, and the hall we watched the play in was roasting hot, very humid and stuffy, so I quickly dried out and starting sweating. The kids have their dinner in the same hall, as well, so the place stunk of fish. It was either the lingering smell of old dinners, or one of the parents or staff had an intimate hygiene problem.
I hate school plays. I generally don't like anything where children are singing. Bugsy Malone is my idea of hell. I'm glad that fat bloke won Britain's Got Talent and not that gappy brummie child. Kids should be out playing on their bikes, not fannying around singing songs about a rat. I think, because I was a young parent, I'm not as far removed from bowel-emptyingly horrible times when I had to sing in public as a child, so I'm feeling embarassed for the kids. don't get me wrong, most of the kids sung their songs well, but some of them didn't. They were really bad. I felt bad for hating them, I felt bad for them. Mostly, I wanted it to be finished so I get my sweaty arse out of the hot halibut halitosis hall and get some fresh air.
Thing is, we had nothing like this when I left primary school, school plays and days out (my daughter went bowling with the school, as well)!) all I got was a brief 'ta-ra' or 'Haven't you fucked off YET, Trimble?' We don't half make a fuss over everything these days.

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.

Memory (Grove) Lane.

I went back to my old school yesterday, for the first time since I left, back in '91. My old school is called Handsworth Grammar School For Boys, which, unsurprisingly, is a grammar school for boys.(Although these days, they let girls join the sixth form, something unheard of in my day-actual females!) Famous alumni of the school include the well-known cartoonist of the past 'Larry'(Terrance Parkes), jazz tramp Charlie Mitton, Denis Howell MP (deceased), Vikram Dodd( fairly famous journalist who writes for the Guardian. He was a few years above me at school, but I remember him launching the school paper which was called The Litter Bin, which was utter drivel. His nickname was VD, I think, so we wouldn't buy the paper, saying it had 'VD' all over it! Urgghhh!), and shit-haired Labour MP, journalist and talented David Cameron impressionist Sion Simon. For some strange reason, people never say "Mick Trimble used to come here! Wow!!"
I went there yesterday with my youngest daughter, who was taking her 11+ exam, and my old school (that's its badge in the picture) was the venue. At the end, when I went to pick her up again, I was surprised to see some of my old teachers were still working there. One of them shouted at me for standing too far to the right (it was just like old times). Like five feet makes all the difference, you old jobsworth cunt. He was a cunt when I was atttending the place and he's still a cunt fifteen years later. Cunt.
The school has had a lot of work done to it since I last bunked off. It was mostly a dilapidated shithole then, but now, it looks modern and clean. These kids today don't know they're born!On the way out with my daughter, I saw another old teacher of mine. I always thought he was okay, so I went up and said hello. This man didn't have a fucking scooby who I was, which is fair enough as he only taught me French twice a week for six fucking years. Oh, and he banned me and five other boys from every school trip ever because he found beer and wine in our hotel room on a French trip. Wasn't my fault, it was the bigger boys, sir. And the French shopkeeper who sold us the alcohol in the first place. I digress. Anyway, when I said my name I could tell he didn't remember me, but to his credit, he pretended to and we chatted for a few minutes, until I put him out of his misery and buggered off. I think he was shell shocked that someone he taught is bringing their own children to the school to take the 11+! It's bound to make you feel old.
It was heartening for me to find out I made no impression whatsoever in my time at school.

Ton up! (As it 'appens!)

Jingle jangle jewellery! Sir Jim'll here! As it 'appens, it's Mick's one hundredth post! Urgherurgherurgh. Lovely, lovely, lovely. Now then, now then, now then, I, Sir James of Saville 'ave fixed it for young Michael to go back in time, as it 'appens, and pick out the best bits of previous posts. Urgherurgherurgh. This is the age of the train! Jingle jangle!
This is from his first post, as it 'appens, from way back in February:
"Yes, you guessed it, I am a comics nerd, but unlike most other comics nerds, I don't stink of piss and self-abuse. (Well, 85% of the time, anyway.) If you are also a comics nerd and are offended, I'm sorry, I do stink really, I'm just trying to sound all cool and that."
Now then, this is also from February, urgherurgherurgh:
"I should be on the Friends Reunited website, but I'm playing truant!"
Stoke Mandeville!Jingle Jangle! Young Michael went missing in March, as it 'appens! So, Sir Jim'll 'as fixed it for us to jump straight to April:
"Having a stalker might be fun if the stalker was interesting, but this fellow was about as much fun as Heimat."
Urgherurgherurgh! Women give you brain damage, as it 'appens. This next one is from May, the same month as Mick's birthday, as it 'appens:
" I'm the very slim, dapper, young-looking sex symbol in the middle. This was in the Birmingham Mail, my local paper, about a week ago. It could've been worse; I look nearly normal. My friend Mikey Ball (top right) had his full name printed, which gets him confused with a chubby chanteur who was in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, and his photo makes him look like a sex case."
Now then, now then, a few days later, Mick posted this little gem:
"On the way to some grub, what appeared to be the last surviving archaeoptyryx shat on both shoulders of my coat."
Lovely, lovely, lovely. At the end of May, as it 'appens, jingle jingle, he posted this:
"There were a few explicit comic strips of WW having sex with various superheroes, and there was one of her getting raped by the Hulk, which may be morally and politically and legally wrong, I object to because Hulk is Marvel and Wonder Woman is DC! If Hulk was going to rape anyone, at least make it someone from his own universe!"
Urgherurgherurgherurgh! A bit naughty of young Michael to mention the subject of 'surprise sex', as it 'appens! I'm just glad the Duchess isn't here to hear it! Now then, now then, let's skip across to June, as it 'appens:
"Drawing old people moaning about their feet has really worn me out. Chore I hate: Sketching podiatrists!"
Couple of days later, this came in:
" Keep going, turn left. I did today, and there is a kind of pricing war going on. Firstly, there is Poundland, the first and most well known of the Pikey Paradises. As you can guess, everything in there costs £1. Round the corner is the "99p Store". Every item costs 99p! Stick your extortionate quid, Poundland! Everything here is ONE WHOLE PENNY CHEAPER! Around another corner, though, and I kid you not, is the"98p Chinese Store"! It's like a backwards auction."
Now then, now then, now then. Lovely, lovely. This next one is, as it'appens, jewellery jewellery, also from June:
"Yesterday, there was a sale of £10 million pounds worth of Princess Margaret's personal belongings, apparently to help pay Lord Linley's inheritance tax bill.Why didn't they just take the empties back?"
Urgherurgherurgh!! Now then, 'aving a pop at the Royal Family is not on, as it 'appens, they do a good job, God bless 'em. Not least since they made me 'Sir' Jim'll MBE. This next one is not nearly as republican:
"Remember Dustin Diamond? He was the waste of skin whose only talent was to talk in an annoying voice. "
This next one is from when the World Cup was on. Now then, now then, Sir James is not so keen on football. Gives you brain damage.Urgherurgherurgh. Wrestling's the game for me! Jingle Jangle! Stoke Mandeville!
"The thing that annoys me most, though, is those stupid call-centre microphones the panel insist on wearing. They don't have to! The second string on ITV4 don't wear them! You won't see the BBC crew wear those. Which is just as well because it would make Alan Hansen look more like Captain Scarlet than he does already."
Now then, we've finished with June, as it 'appens, so lets fast forward to July!
"It's like my mom used to say: 'Cheaters never prosper'. (Saying that though, she also used to tell us we were about to have 'shit with egg on' for tea, and Henry and Matthew Kelly were brothers, so I'd take a lot of what she says with a whole handful of salt.)"
Urgherurgherurgh! Showing disrespect towards his dear old mother! Now then, now then! If I said owt like that to my dear old lady, the Duchess, God rest her, as it 'appens, she'd confiscate me cigar! Jingle Jangle! Now then, this next 'highlight', and I use the word sarcastically, is also from July:
"Here in Birmingham, the local radio station, BRMB, stopped broadcasting for two minutes to join in the paying of respects for the victims of 7/7. Just before, though, they just happened to play Going Underground by The Jam!"
Stoke Mandeville! He's 'aving a go at us Disc Jockeys, now ! Wait 'til I tell DLT! Hairy cornflake, as it 'appens!! Needs his bottom smacked, as it 'appens!
This next one is also from the World Cup:
"Apparently, Theo Walcott has tested positive in a drug's test. They found traces of Calpol."
He's having a go at little kiddies now! If I see 'im, I'll have 'im in a Boston Crab, just like when I was a wrestler! Urgherurgherurgh!!!
Now then, now then, July was a busy month for young Mister Trimble's blog, as it 'appens, this next one being from that month also:
"Despite the prelim being written by your typical piss-smelling comics-nerd virgin whose knowledge of what a naked woman looks like is gleaned from Rob Liefeld's shitty drawings in X-Force, the ten books chosen make interesting reading."
Sir Jim'll has sympathy for young Mister Liefeld. Now then, it just so 'appens Sir James can't draw feet either. This Mister Trimble's giving me brain damage!
Now then, I've started this marathon, I might as well finish it. Jingle Jangle!This next one is also from July:
"While at Bristol Comic Expo last year with the comic Stuffed, I was sat behind a table drawing for a very nice, but mental Dutchman. While I was doing it, a middle-aged moustachioed man sat down next to me and starting drawing. He asked If he could borrow a rubber (eraser, if you're american-it's not that type of moustachioed middle-aged men story!) I didn't have one, so he borrowed it from someone else. It was Brian Bolland!"
Gaze into the fist of Sir Jim'll MBE!! Urgherurgherurgh!!This next one was written during the hot weather:
"I can't take my shirt off to cool down for health reasons. Other people will get sick if they see my pale chubby midriff."
Take my advice, young Michael. Wear a shell-suit. Very cool in hot weather, as it 'appens, and it's flame retardant! Now then, isn't 'retardant' another word for someone with Brain Damage? Urgherurgherurgh!! Let's jump to August now:
" Increasingly, these days, it is getting harder to buy comics in comics shops. It's even more difficult to buy what us bona-fide piss-smelling self-abusing comics nerds really want (besides a good bath): Back issues."
You see, the wearing of a light shellsuit stops you sweating and smelling, as it 'appens! Now then, seeing as you're a comics geek, I could lend you my suit that's got Superman all up the front of it. Lovely, lovely, lovely! Now then, is this Marathon anywhere near finished yet? Should've took the locomotive! Jingle Jangle Jewellery! This is the age of the train! Urgherurgherurgh! This came in a few days later:
"I was in there the other day whilst my better half was looking for a birthday gift for a colleague. While I was doing that obligatory 'man shopping' thing (ie. Huffing and moaning and saying 'Yeah, that's nice' to everything I was asked for my opinion of)"
Now then, now then! I told you, young Mister Trimble, all women except the Duchess, God rest her, give you brain damage. Anyway, the next excerpt is from another 'hot weather' type subject, ice cream, as it 'appens:
"The ice-cream man was called Clive and if you only had 10p, he would give you what was called 'froth'. You'd give him a bowl and he'd fill it with unwhipped creamy fluid that was either going to be ice-cream, or had been in its youth. Anyway, not only was Clive a purveyor of frozen ices, 99s and crushed nuts, he was the local loan-shark. So you'd stand there waiting your turn in the queue, behind a crying alcoholic asking to be 'let off' that week, as he'd pissed his giro up the wall. Very strange. "
Now then, Sir James of Saville can't stand ice cream, as it's temperature reminds me of the dead young flesh. Urgherurgherurgh!
Next up, also from August, as it 'appens:"Oh dear.I remember seeing this on 'Live And Kicking' and Andi "spell it with an 'I', it's wacky!"Peters saying how much he loved it. Having Andi "spell it with an 'I', it's wacky!" Peters liking anything is going to put me off that thing forever."
Stoke Mandeville! He's only knocking kiddies TV presenters! Urgherurgherurgh! Hardest job in the world, young man. You want to try getting kids to eat ice cream and jelly on a roller-coaster! Jingle Jangle! This next one concerns his artwork, as it 'appens:
"This is my latest creation. He is called the Arts Champion, and he goes around Birmingham unlocking Brummies' creative powers at bus stops. In my experience, most Brummies' creativeness at bus stops extends as far as writing 'VILLA KILL BCFC' or 'SHAZZA IS A SLUT' on the window in permanent marker, but never mind."
Lovely, lovely, lovely. I reckon all vandals have got brain damage. Spent too much time with women. Now then, now then, let's jump over to September:
"I had another go at that face recognition/celebrity lookalike thing I've seen on a few other blogs. I've used at least four different pictures, and it keeps coming up with the same result: Pete Fucking Doherty. He's got the same colour hair as me! That's all! He's probably only weighs about eight stone wringing wet! I'm at least two-stone overweight. I wear glasses, he doesn't. He has an up-and-down relationship with a stroppy cow, and I...err...well, you get the idea."
That young Mister Doherty would do well to just use drugs and kick young Miss Moss into touch. Less chance of brain damage. Jingle Jangle! This is also from the lovely month of September, as it 'appens:
"This Pope has said a silly thing which has upset people. I mean, before, he was just a nice, straightfoward, ultra-conservative homophobic ex-Nazi in a dress, but now he said all wars are unholy, I've gone off him."
Is no-one safe from this man's gob?! He's 'ad a go at the Royals, his dear old mum and now the Pope!Urgherurgherurgh!
Now then, let's see if it gets any better:"I was so full of urine my usual shy-bladder syndrome was disabled; Sing Hosanna! I could piss freely at the urinal! Whilst I was there, a man (well it was the Gents') was making really wet noises. My curiousity was piqued. I had to look. This man had a penis at least twice the length of mine ( so it must've been at least 20" long!) and instead of shaking it like the rest of us, he was spin drying his with a kind of helicopter-type motion. It was like he was trying to throw a grapple hook. But it was the sound that got me, it was like the wet, slapping noises a fish might make if it's flying against a wall."
Jingle jangle! In-depth descriptions of a stranger's personal private hospital (Stoke Mandeville) parts .Now then, now then! Jim will fix it for you to see a shrink! You've obviously got brain damage! Now then, now then, we're finally entering October:"He's had an ear infection for as long as I've known him (12 years) which sometimes results in a piccalilli-type substance running out of the side of his head. Once, while eating a kebab, a farmfoods one you have to warm up yourself, a bit of bone in it blocked his passages and was choking him. After lots of wet retching and sucking sounds, he regurgitated what he'd been eating into his hands, flicked out the offending piece of bone, and swallowed it all back down again. "
Lovely, lovely, lovely. That finally brings you up to date.We've finally crossed the finish line and got our foil blanket and Mars bar.Urgherurgherurgh! So young Michael's reached one hundred not out, as it 'appens! Let's hope, once his brain damage is cleared up by my good friends at Stoke Mandeville, his next hundred are in better taste! Jingle Jangle Jewellery!

MeMe Me! Me too!

At a total loss as to what to write about for my next post, I decided to do this meme I've seen on the lovely Jemima's blog. It took far longer than it needed to.
ARE YOU:
1. A cuddler?
I'd like to think so, but I'm sometimes hard to get close to, because of two factors: one- When I'm in a mood, I hate my physical space being invaded. and two- My fat gut stops anyone getting their arms all the way around me. I also think that, whilst cuddling can be nice, someone who's clingy can be a real pain in the arse.
2. A morning person?
I have to wake up at six every morning to go to a shit job where I hate at least 78.5% of my colleagues. I just want to go in, sit down for a bit, drink my coffee and read my paper without being bothered. But then you get some inconsiderate wanker come up and ask "How's the family, Mick?" and they get upset when you reply "Fuck off!" So, no, I'm not a morning person.
3. A perfectionist?
I think I am to a certain extent. With my comic art, I do get supremely furious if I can't get it right,and my figures all look like they've escaped from an institution for help with physical abnormalities but when there's a deadline looming, you kind of have to let it go at some point. I do take pride in my work, even when I'm at my shitty day job, but not to the point where I'm losing sleep if something's not quite right.
4. An only child?
No. I have two brothers and, much later, after the three of us had all but grown up, a half sister. I've always liked the fact that I have two brothers. We look out for each other, which was helpful during the horrible childhood we all had.
5. Catholic?
I'm from an Irish family. My Granddad's a left-footer. My Dad was baptised, but he's a seriously lapsed Catholic, and brought me up to have a healthy distrust of all religion. I'm a prolapsed Catholic, you can stick it back up your arse.
6. In your pyjamas?
I'm fully dressed now, but I hate wearing anything in bed. I might keep my boxers on if I'm staying at someone else's house.
7. Currently suffering from a broken heart?
It's probably the only thing in or on my body that's not aching at the moment!
8. Okay styling other people's hair?
While I was at school, I worked at my uncle's barber shop for five years, sweeping up and making the customers tea or coffee, and washing their hair, if they wanted it. Seeing as most of the clientele were from the leafy borough of Castle Vale, they very rarely wanted it. I don't think I could trust myself with sharp implements near people's ears.
9. Left handed?
No.
10. Addicted to MySpace?
All the other comics artists I know have one. I keep meaning to get myself one, but I can't be arsed at the moment. And Rupert Murdoch is the Antichrist.
11. Shy around the opposite gender?
For a long time, whilst a teenager, I was extremely shy around girls, and make up for it by pulling their hair and running away. Not really. I'm kind of stand-offish around most people-whether they have a vagina or not!
12. Loud?
I have my moments.Mostly involving alcohol and/or football. I relieve a lot of my boredom at work by shouting "What a fucking row! " at the radio.

DO YOU:
12. Bite your nails?
Not really. I have really, really long nails for a boy.
13. Get paranoid at times?
Who told you that? Is that what they're all saying about me?
14. Currently regret something that you have said/done?
I'm always regretting something. Things I've said in anger, or things I've done whilst inebriated which were inappropriate. I also regret buying a canary yellow Ben Sherman shirt in a sale that I've worn only once. I also regret starting these questions.
15. Curse frequently when you get mad?
Are you fucking joking? I curse frequently when I'm calm. When I'm angry, there are whole strings of swearwords with no real words in between spewing from my blue lips!
16. Enjoy country music?
In this country, our country music is the Wurzels. OohArrr!! I think C&W music is as valid as any other artform, but generally, it does nothing for me.
17. Enjoy jazz music?
No. Whenever I listen to Jazz, it seems to be played by five blokes that have a vague memory of what the tune should be, and they're just pissing about until they all remember it exactly again.
18. Enjoy smoothies?
They're alright, but they are just a stamped on banana in a cup. A stamped banana in a cup you've paid two quid for.
19. Enjoy talking on the phone?
I absolutely fucking loathe talking on the phone. I'm so glad e-mails and text messages have been invented.
20. Have a lot to learn?
Absolutely. Life is one big lesson. I need to learn how to use a telephone.
21. Have a pet?
No. I hate cats, my partner hates dogs, so we're at a animal-based Mexican standoff.
22. Have a tendency to fall for the "wrong" person?
Probably. Although I have been with her for fourteen years.
23. Have all your grandparents died?
No. My Nan and Granddad on my dad's side are both still with us. Just about.
24. Have at least one sibling?
I think this was answered in question 4.
25. Have been told that you are smart?
As a child, quite a lot. Then I went to Grammar School, and was told quite frequently that I wasn't. Now I work in a factory, they think you're an intellectual if you read the Mirror instead of the Sun. The fact I've got A-Levels and read books puts me up there with Stephen Hawking in the minds of the Cro-Magnons I work with.
26. Have had a broken bone?
I broke the ulna in my right arm when I was about nine or ten. I broke the ulna and bent the radius. I did it by falling over a bench in a park at highspeed. I went home crying with a forearm shaped like a U-bend. It's probably the most painful thing I've ever endured.
27. Have caller id on your phone?
No, I have caller ego and caller super-ego.

HAVE YOU:
28. Changed a diaper?
Many times. I'm a father of two. I think baby shit is the worst substance known to man. It's smell is still lingering around here at least eight years later. People who don't know us come to our house, take one sniff and ask "You have kids, don't you?"
29. Changed a lot over the past year?
Not as much as I should've done.
30. Had friends who have never seen your natural hair colour?
Friends? What are them, then? I've never, ever dyed my hair, so everyone who has met me has seen my natural hair colour. Just look at people's eyebrows-that tells you their natural colour.
31. Had surgery?
Never. I was present at both my children's caesarean births, which doesn't really count.
32. Killed anyone?
What a dumb fucking question. If I had, am I likely to say yes? Go on then, it's a fair cop, I am Jack The Ripper. I feel so much better for getting that off my chest.
I've killed loads in my comic strips, and once, a strip I'd written and drawn concerning a man fantasising about murdering his wife got me into a lot of trouble.
33. Had a haircut in the last week?
No, but I really need one. I look like Worzel Gummidge.

LAST PERSON WHO:
34. Slept in the bed beside you?
My wonderful better half, who I don't deserve.
35. Saw you cry?
See above.
36. Went to the movies with you?
The missus and kids. We went to see Pirates Of The Caribbean 2. We liked it.
37. Went to the mall with?
My eldest daughter. We were meeting people there before we went to a football match.
38. You went to dinner with?
The missus and kids again. We went for a curry. It was great. I'm going for a meal next week with some relatively famous and some relatively unfamous comics artists at a bloody vegetarian restaurant. I will NOT eat tofu.
39. You talked to on the phone?
It was probably my Mother-In-Law. She didn't want to talk to me.
40. Said "I love you" to you and meant it?
See question 34.
41. Broke your heart?
I don't think it's happened. There are lots of girls who have pissed me off, though.
42. Made you laugh?
My family always make me laugh. They're kind of funny-looking.
Only joking! I think the fact we're always laughing together has kept us relatively solid for the last fourteen years.

WOULD YOU RATHER
43. Pierce your nose or tongue?
I'm not really that keen on any kind of piercing. If I had to choose though, it'd be my nose. I'm not letting any fucker near my gob with sharp tools.
44. Be serious or be funny?
Funny. I do have my serious moments, but don't like them very much.
45. Drink whole or skim milk?
I'd rather drink whole milk, but we buy semi-skimmed. Skimmed milk is just white water.
46. Die in a fire or drown?
Whatever's quickest. If I'm burned to death, my surviving family save money on my cremation!
47. Spend time with your parents or enemies?
I'm not Batman. I don't really have enemies. At least he doesn't have to put up with his parents.

ABOUT YOU:
48. What time is it?
It's about quarter past Chico time.
49. Nicknames?
I don't really have any. 'Mick', I suppose. My brothers call me 'Mickey', which I hate nearly as much as being called 'Mike' , which I seriously detest. At work I'm referred to as 'Big Mick' sometimes, because there's another Mick who's a bit smaller.
50. Where were you born?
I was born In Good Hope Hospital, Sutton Coldfield.
51. What is your birthdate?
The twenty-second of May, nineteen seventy-four. I am now expecting a card from all of you on my next birthday.
52. What do you want?
I've been wondering about this my whole life. The Answer, I suppose.
53. Where do you want to live?
Not bothered. Anywhere nicer than where I am. The Lebanon, maybe?
54. How many kids do you want?
I'm extremely happy and proud of the two kids I've got, and I don't want any more, thanks. Like most blokes, I'd have liked a son, but it wasn't to be. I'm really looking forward to being a grandad one day. Far in the future.

Children Of The Damned.

I'm totally knackered. A weekend of almost constant drinking has disrupted my sleep routine and turned my liver to foie gras. I attended an in-law's 'end of summer' party on Saturday, which was attended mostly by what would be my number one of things to put in Room 101- Posh Children. I think this is related directly to Emu's Pink Windmill Show, where a bunch of posh kids would jump around like a bunch of hyperactive spaniels and sing 'There's somebody at the door!" repeatedly every time some desperately-needs-the-work actor rang the doorbell. I always wanted Grotbags to win, because she reminded me of my Nan, only my Grandmother isn't bright green, nor does she hang around with a crocodile. (On a related note: RIP Steve Irwin. You should've wore sunscreen, mate. It protects you from harmful rays.) No, the posh kids won. Also, I attended an all-boys' Grammar school, whilst being obviously working class, which developed in me a kind of inverse snobbery. If anybody 'talks nice', generally, I'll hate them straight away. So. I don't like 'posh' kids. They still call their mothers 'Mummy' when they're teenagers. They go to auditions. They like school. They play recorders.They have lisps and can't say the letter 'R' and have horses instead of bikes.
So, anyway, we turn up at this family party, and as soon as I've got rid of my coat (it was pissing it down), I'm off to the kitchen, as usual, to grab myself a beer when these strange 11-year-old girls start talking to me, whilst I'm rummaging around for a bottle opener.
"Oh, helloooo," says one particularly precious girl "You talk funnily, are you Australian?" She makes it sound as if being antipodean is worse than being a sex case.
"No, I'm from Birmingham, from Stechford, just up the road."
"Ohhh, so you're a 'Brummay' " The last word being an affected accent. Imagine that, a real live Brummie in Birmingham! How quaint!
GGRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Anyway, the rest of the weekend was better, but tiring, and it seems I spoke too soon about finishing the ArtsFest project. I must've had to re-letter the thing about eleventy times. They want the council logo bigger, they don't want it there, replace 'Birmingham Museum & Art Gallery' with just 'BM&AG' and back again. But, it IS finished now, and they like it that much they're replacing the designs on the glossy ArtsFest brochure with images from the strip. Which is nice. They've also asked me to join the Council Arts Dept.'s Artists database. And I finally got paid for some work I did for John McCrea, so all in all, I'm quite pleased with myself tonight. Watch some fucker spoil it tomorrow. Some fucker with an RP accent.

The magic number.

Generally, I try to avoid memes. I think they exist to help waste time already at a premium. I like reading other people's answers, but I don't really like exposing too much of myself to strangers. Just the genitals, in parks.
I've been forced by the lissome lycanthrope loather Jemima Von Schindelberg to take part in this music meme. It involves naming five of your favourite songs that belong with a certain letter of the alphabet. Jemima shot her silver bullet at me and tagged me to name five songs that begin with any of the numbers 0-9. I don't remember numbers being in the alphabet before, but it's the future now, and there are people called John 5, C-3PO and Rocky Four mooching about. I was going to try being clever and use songs beginning with 'Pi', as that is a number between 0-9, but I couldn't think of any, much less any I like.
That's the general problem with this tag. Nearly all of the songs I could think of that begin with a number, I absolutely hate with a passion. No shock there, I generally hate everything I can think of. So I'm going to list why I hate these records, and once I've done that I might be able to come up with some records I like!
One Hot Minute by Red Hot Chili Peppers. Title track of a terrible, terrible album.
One Way Of Life by The Levellers. Back in my late teens/long hair and Docs days, this song would always come on at the esteemed Hummingbird nightclub (where I nearly always ended up) whenever I was lying in my own vomit. I also associate Move Any Mountain by The Shamen with being alcoholically unwell.
One Night In Heaven by M People. Harry Hill always did it better.
Two Can Play At That Game by Bobby Brown. Oh dear.I remember seeing this on 'Live And Kicking' and Andi "spell it with an 'I', it's wacky!"Peters saying how much he loved it. Having Andi "spell it with an 'I', it's wacky!" Peters liking anything is going to put me off that thing forever.
Two Little Boys by Rolf Harris. Never liked Rolf. He used to scare me as a child by lurking around swimming pools whispering 'Kids, they love the water.' before telling some scary anecdote about nearly drowning. And he can't paint the Queen properly. My Granddad likes this song, though.
500 miles by The Proclaimers. I tend to find being shouted at by two scots unnerving. Even if the effect is dimmed somewhat by them both looking like Joe 90. Another person with a number for a name.
Seven Tears by the Goombay Dance Band. Big shirts. Big hair. Big singalong chorus. Big load of shit.
99 Luftballons by Nena. Singing in German should only be allowed if you are holding a stein of lager in your hand and swaying. Or if you're Rammstein. Listen to Richard Cheese's version instead.

So, I can only think of three songs that begin with numbers that I like. I like One by Metallica, an anti-war song that ironically sounds like a battle. I like 2many DJs by Soulwax. They must be proud of it as well, naming their side-project after it. It's on the album Much Against Everyone's Advice . Check it out. It's ace. I like 7 Words by Deftones. It's on their first album, Adrenaline. It's kind of like Nu-metal but before Nu-metal and better than Nu-metal.Released on Madonna's Maverick label. Probably the only decent thing she's ever done is sign Deftones.
The fact that I can waffle on about stuff I hate for much longer and more articulately than stuff I like says so much about me.

Bored.

I am at a total loose end. My better half is out this evening. My kids are asleep. I have done every pressing art job I had, to clear the decks ready for the mammoth 20-page plus script that is supposed to be imminent. I tried watching the telly. It's shit. I tried the PS2. I'm shit at it. The computer version of Aston Villa are just as shit as the real one! I'm currently listening to the radio. That's shit as well. (Kerrang FM, if you're interested. If you like the Chilis, the Foos or The Killers, it's great. I don't.) I was going to take a picture of myself in a toilet, as that appears to be a new fad amongst some., but my other half took the camera, and you don't really want to see what I do in a toilet. I tried to think of something amusing to blog about, but I can't.
So I thought I'd ask some questions that bother me, to see if my five readers out in Blog-land could answer them.
1) Why do you never see brand-new ice cream vans ? They're always battered wrecks (it might be just here in Birmingham that it is the case.) Where do you buy ice-cream vans from anyway?
Actually, this reminds me of the ice-cream van that used to serve the street I used to live on in the peaceful, leafy vale of Perry Common, Erdington. The ice-cream man was called Clive and if you only had 10p, he would give you what was called 'froth'. You'd give him a bowl and he'd fill it with unwhipped creamy fluid that was either going to be ice-cream, or had been in its youth. Anyway, not only was Clive a purveyor of frozen ices, 99s and crushed nuts, he was the local loan-shark. So you'd stand there waiting your turn in the queue, behind a crying alcoholic asking to be 'let off' that week, as he'd pissed his giro up the wall. Very strange. But I digress.
2) Why do you never see baby pigeons? Are they hatched as adults? We have a 'pigeon park' here in Brum, where thousands of the lice-infested shit-machines congregate. Every time I've been there, I've never seen a baby one.
Digression time again, though not entirely unrelated: Today I spent an afternoon in Cannon Hill Park, where there seemed to be a violent bout of stomach illness going through the local goose population. Their shite isn't like other birdshit. It's not just a white mess, they produce what can only be called turds. These turds look like miniature pints of Guinness, black with a white top. It was everywhere.
3) Who is responsible for the pile of bollocks that is How do You Solve A Problem Like Maria? I bet Graham Norton spends every day regretting the day he signed that contract with the Beeb. At least he isn't Kate Thornton. I watched it today for ten minutes. I'll never get those six hundred whole seconds back again.

Anyway, I'm going to pack up now. I'm bored of this now. It's shit.

Reasons I Love Comics (issue#4): Continued on 3rd page following.

I've always smiled at the phrase "continued on 3rd page following." It just meant that the there were two pages of advertisements coming. A printed version of the commercial break. If they didn't print the phrase, did kids think that the comic just stopped? "Stan's just not trying anymore, that spidey story only lasted five pages!"

Generally, adverts suck. I go to the cinema to watch a two-and-a-half hour Superman movie, which is a herculean task for most people's bladders, and they stick 45 minutes of adverts on first. It's always the same old shite. Telly adverts are par for the course, but they are still shit. If I see that little wanker singing 'They're gonna taste great!" once more, I'll find a lookalike of him and beat him up. The thing I hate most about adverts is the fact they just plain lie at you. They make promises they have no intention of keeping.
It's the same with comics advertising. They promised "101 uses" for a portable hand fan. They sold "X-Ray Spex" which didn't work (I bought some once in a joke shop in Kingstanding, Birmingham. They just made my hand look kind of orangey and blurry, and I definitely couldn't see any tits.) They could turn me into a muscleman if I mailed away for a Joe Weider course. The adverts in my childhood comics always intrigued me. I used to wonder what a zip code was. I wondered if Grit newspaper really was a tabloid about gravel. I used to think Sea Monkeys really did look like that. (see image below.) Notice how the daddy sea-monkey's knackers are artfully hidden behind his tail? Notice how his wife's fishy bits are also hidden from view? And the fact that the kids have no genitalia teaches us that they don't grow pudendi until puberty.

Whilst I was reading these comics as a young boy, Britain was going through recession. There were three million people unemployed. Thatcher was at the height of her dark powers. My dad was invariably on the dole. So buying stuff by mail order from the back of The Mighty Thor was never going to happen. The comic itself was a rare treat. (I only got comics bought for me, not by me with my after school wages or pocket money, whenever I was in hospital;it made me think I was lucky for contracting meningitis!) So these adverts teased me with shiny products I was never going to acquire. Then, there were the adverts that made you think you'd got a bonus story in your comic:

They were like a late'70s version of a DVD extra. They were for Hostess "Twinkies" and "Fruit Pies" or Oreo cookies. They were one-page comic strips usually involving an alien menace that could be only stopped by Marvel superheroes filling their enemies' fat faces with American sweets. It just encouraged sports-shunning kids who read comics (ie. nerds like me) to fill their own fat necks with sweets. (Although not with anything made by Hostess; it was probably a Spar own-brand swiss roll.) This also sold me a lie. I thought American chocolate was good enough to stop an alien invasion, or at the very least a bank robber, until a good friend of mine bought me a giant Hershey bar back from the Big Apple. It literally tasted of vomit. It had a bile-y aftertaste which made me want to create my own sick, which would definitely taste better.

Then there are the ads which I look retrospectively on with horror. This ad is trying to sell you "black face"! I mean, Marvel did a lot of good work by introducing several black superheroes in the '60s and '70s. There was T'Challa, Luke Cage, the Falcon, Storm and Blade. Yet they undo all that by running this ad! It still has charm, I suppose, as a period piece, and it shows how far we've come in a short time.

So. Comics are great. Even the adverts are ace!

Reasons I love Comics (Issue #1): Gaze into the fist of Dredd!

In the previous post's comments, I mentioned I was thinking of listing the reasons why I love comics. Which particular stories, art, panels, punch-ups, movies, animated spin-offs etc., illustrate why I love the medium so much. So, in no particular order of merit, here's the first issue!
This single panel is probably what got me turned on to comics when I was a small boy.
Because both of my parents worked, my brothers and I spent our school summer holidays at my Nan and Granddad's house. My youngest brother was a climber and an explorer, and would spend all day either climbing trees or picking up crusty white dogshit and throwing it at other kids. My other brother was a warrior, who would either play football ("It's not the winning, it's the taking someone apart!") attack nettle bushes with a stick, or attack other kids (with or without a stick, he wasn't bothered) . I was the quiet one (hard to believe now, I know) the 'clever one' who was happy just to read. Two of my uncles hadn't left home yet and my Uncle Paul used to buy 2000AD every week and keep them in boxes under his bed. So when I went to Nanny's I would just bugger off upstairs and immerse myself in newsprint mayhem every day until the egg and chips were ready.
Paul had literally hundreds of the things under his bed, so, every day,I'd go and fish the next one out. (The collection was incomplete though; it used to piss me off when one was missing) I loved RoboHunter, Strontium Dog and I used to especially like Rogue Trooper. I never used to be keen on Judge Dredd, until I chanced upon the work of Brian Bolland. The man was, and still is, a genius with a pencil and an ink brush. It looked both realistic and yet dynamic. His composition of each panel was brilliant. His Dredd was the definitive Dredd. The first time I came across his art was in the four-part Judge Death story, which was brilliant, (it also introduced Judge Anderson) but the sequel to that strip was called The Four Dark Judges and it booted poor old Rogue into second place forever. I think it was Prog 225, but I'm not sure. Dredd was caught in Judge Fear's bear trap and Fear was about to show him his face, which was so frightening it will stop your heart if you look at it. "Gaze into the face of Fear!" said Judge Fear."Gaze into the fist of Dredd!" replies Joe, who promptly twats him in the mush! Fantastic. So much energy in one panel. As ever Bolland's crisp clean brushwork and his excellent cross hatching made the panel jump out at you. From that moment on, both Dredd and Bolland were my favourites.

Epilogue: While at Bristol Comic Expo last year with the comic Stuffed, I was sat behind a table drawing for a very nice, but mental Dutchman. While I was doing it, a middle-aged moustachioed man sat down next to me and starting drawing. He asked If he could borrow a rubber (eraser, if you're american-it's not that type of moustachioed middle-aged men story!) I didn't have one, so he borrowed it from someone else. It was Brian Bolland. My childhood hero (well, after Paul McGrath.) and I was sitting next to him and sketching. And I didn't have a bloody rubber.

(Author's note: I won't tell you what else I found under Paul's bed! That changed my outlook in a different way!)