Still Alive.

Blimey, the gaps between posts are getting longer and longer. Michael Jackson was still warming up for his O2 gigs last time I posted anything, and Farrah Fawcett, Karl Malden and Mollie Sugden were similarly all still breathing. It's been mental around here lately, mostly because of my girlfriend getting swine flu. This meant I couldn't go onto the internet because this disease is so contagious and deadly that anyone reading my blog would die almost straight away (yes, I have been reading the hysterical national press.) and I didn't want the death of those three people on my conscience. Anyway, my other half's okay now (mostly) , so, unless I contract the pig flu myself, expect more regular posts soon. I'll wrap up the Rome stuff soon, so keep popping by!

And Finally....

Having lived in the People's Republic of the West Midlands for nearly as long as there's been a county called 'The West Midlands', I thought I'd be used to the stupidity and crassness of our local news bulletins by now.
It turns out I'm not. I'm still weirded out by what I witnessed on Central Tonight, tonight (funnily enough). This is the bulletin on ITV, and it's been presented by Bob Warman for what feels like forever. I think his first story for what was then ATV Today was something along the lines of 'Sabretooth tiger attacks Neanderthal in a cave near Bromsgrove', but I might be making that up. Because Bob's the elder statesman of news in the West Midlands, the news bulletin tends to be a bit more straitlaced when he's on it, because he doesn't understand the modern world or senses of humour. You can see he's uncomfortable with the friendly lightweight stories or the affable banter with the sports presenter covering the lack of transfer activity at Villa Park that day. And rightly so, in my opinion. News is for news, not for giving airtime for some local tit who's designed a new way of getting jam into doughnuts or something.
Anyway, Bob Warman was away today. It was instead presented by that woman with the Lego hair and that Scouse bloke whose face is far too small for his head. (I think it's wrong for a Scouser to read out Midlands news).This gave the editorial staff the chance to fanny about a bit. It went like this; the weather girl, Emma Jesson likes to do her daily reports from different locations, although it usually tends to be an ice rink or the Walsall arboretum. Today, however, it was neither of those exotic locales. She was, wait for it, in a living room in Sutton Coldfield! (I can sense you're all getting excited by that particular piece of prose!) She had a couple behind her who were both dancing, albeit slightly out of sync with each other and a bit rubbish. This carries on for a couple of minutes, the lovely Emma telling us it's going to piss down all week, with this man and woman acting like they're both dying for a wee in the background.
Then we found out why. They're practising for their elaborate first dance at their wedding, which they're going to film and put on YouTube. How original! To prove how original it was, Central Tonight then showed us a montage of all the other wankers who have done something similar and put it on YouTube. (Just put 'wedding dance' into YouTube, you'll see the kind of shit I mean.) Why do people do this? Why is it always to a shit song? Why don't they do something original? (I'd love to see a wedding dancefloor with a big circle pit and lots of moshing! That'd be cool! Maybe I'll have it at my own wedding, should any woman be daft enough to agree to become Mrs. Michael Trimble.) What happened to dignity? Why do they feel the need to show the fucking world how 'wacky' they are?
I know I sound like a miserable old fart, but for fuck's sake, the last thing I want to see at a wedding is a re-enactment of Dirty Dancing, which is probably the biggest crime-against-the-eyes shown in a cinema ever made. (This reminds me, actually, of a wedding my dad told me about. It was one of his mates from work, and it was about twenty years ago, when Dirty Dancing was first out, and they tried to recreate that scene where she jumps into his arms and he holds her aloft. Thing was, she wasn't the lightest bride, nor was he the soberest groom. She gets up on a chair when the song reaches its big chorus, there's no way she can actually jump from the floor without a block and tackle. He's ready with his arms out. All their nearest and dearest are all round them on the dancefloor in a big circle, to give them both room. She launches herself at him, and he catches her, but he's too weak and too pissed and after about eight seconds of sweating , straining and swaying they both crash to the floor in a heap of white lace and grey tails. Fantastic. Now that, I wouldn't mind seeing. Unfortunately this was before the internet, so it will just have to live on in oral tradition.)
Where will it all end? Divorcing couples having a West Side Story-type dance off at the custody hearing?
As you can see, I'm a hopeless romantic.

This bit of the news wasn't the weird bit, though. Afterwards, they cut back to the studio and Lego Hair and the Scouser With A Face Too Small For His Head both remarked to each other how nifty the Sutton Coldfield couple's moves were. Then, and I shit you not , they went into a crappy dance routine of their own, which culminated in Lego Hair jumping into Scouser With A Face Too Small For His Head's arms and he swung her around at waist level. Then the theme music and credits came on, and Lego Hair carried on shimmying around the set with all the grace of a three-legged tortoise, whilst Scouser With A Face Too Small For His Head had a suitably shameful look on his face that was too small for his head. This was on the same show that had a big story about a poor bloke getting stabbed to death, and they looked like they were celebrating the news!
Local news, eh?

Knob namesake.

Ever since Septic Isle came out, I've been guilty of putting my name into Google to see what people have been saying about the book and my artwork. I think it's known as 'Googlebating', but it does throw up some interesting results. Besides trudging though loads of listings about articles about David Trimble written by a journalist called 'Mick', I've found out that there's another Mick Trimble who used to play bass in a band called Iluvatar. Maybe he also puts his (our) name into Google and only finds criticisms of my 'wobbly linework'!

There are other interesting finds, such as this: The Trimble Funeral and Cremation Centers. You can now say goodbye to a dear departed loved one in that special Trimble way. This might mean less swearing than if you booked me personally, and that can only be a good thing, right?

I've also found out that there are 'Trimble tribute bands'. Excellent! You can book them here. While I have visions of four blokes dressed like me rocking out, it's just that these are bands who are from, or operate in Trimble County, Kentucky.

I think it's brilliant that there's a Trimble county! Maybe I should go and live there, claim my throne and live like the king I should! Maybe I can get my technically American lovely girlfriend to take me and help translate. (She's been complaining lately that I haven't mentioned her on this blog for ages. Happy now, Heather?) The main reason to go to Trimble county, however, is to see the magnificent Trimble Knob. Lots of people have marvelled at the magnificence of the Trimble knob, they want to go and sit on it. But only if it's a nice day and they can take a picnic.


TRIMBLE KNOB.

Britain Is Broken.

Just a quick post to tell you all that the Septic Isle website is now live and ready for your perusal. I've done some new art for the site; Profile pics of the main players in the story. You'll find out that I was in a 'hand' mood on the day I did those, all the characters are doing stuff with their hands! Anyway, have a look for yourself, here.

Poorly Shoulder, Episode VII

Guess what I've been playing with all afternoon! It's true though, my shoulder does hurt. I think I might've mentioned it to all and sundry at least eleventeen times...

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!)

Are You Thirsty For Moore?

Remember that 'Cavemen Vs. Werewolves' strip I posted about a few weeks back? Well, it's now part of the multimedia launch of
The Many Worlds Of Jonas Moore, a computer game (and soon to be a next generation graphic novel, whatever one of them is.) starring the actor Colin Salmon (Him from Prime Suspect and Party Animals on TV, and he was also Robinson from the Brosnan Bond movies, as well as Resident Evil and Aliens Vs. Predator [don't hold those movies against him, though.])
Click on the link, go to the gallery, and see me on there. They call me Mick Trimble Mick Trimble though (so good they named him twice), but they link to my ComicSpace, so it might lead to some work. Might. Also, you can download the strip as a PDF (I'm not sure if I want to be a PDF file, I might end up on the Sex Offenders Register!) from the 'downloads' section. It's kinda exciting to be involved in a major project like this, and it's also exciting, being a 007 geek, that someone from the Bond movies (apparently he also plays 007 in screen tests for auditioning Bond girls)has now heard of me, as he was one of the judges. Maybe he'll introduce me to Halle Berry or Eva Green. I am back on the market now, after all! Knowing my luck, I'll end up with Honor Blackman.

Cyber-courting?

Since the mother of my children and I split up (we're still arguing over who gets custody of her mother) I've had to go round all the websites I feature on and change any mention of my marital status, be it on a comic's website my bio is on or just changing my MySpace so it now says 'Single' instead of 'In A Relationship.' I even tried to tweak the 'Homunculus' cobblers next to my photo over there on the right of your screen, but Blogger won't let me get at it, for some reason.
I mention this because in the last couple of weeks, since I changed my status on MySpace, I've had a couple of women sending very forward messages to my inbox. One American lady in particular was very forthright, said I was 'cute' and that I should send her a message back through some internet dating site she's on. She's obviously borderline blind (she was wearing glasses in her photo) and a little bit mental if she finds my picture on MySpace in any way arousing (it's a picture of me scowling and raising a pint of lager to my lips), and I'm not particularly interested in a new relationship just yet.
Even so, I had a look at her profile online (it was free to join, so my fears that this was some clever advertising ploy to get me to part with my hard-earned cash were allayed) found she lives in Missouri or somewhere and I'm not really inclined towards a relationship which consists mainly of emails, and nothing else. Although, someone I know, who will remain nameless, seems to think that these internet-only relationships are the best thing in the whole world.
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!)
Don't get me wrong, it works for some people (two friends of mine met their wives through the internet. I don't mean buying them from the Phillipines, either.) and I'm not ruling out using the internet to get my end away, either, at the appropriate time. It's just a method of meeting people that wasn't around when I was last single, and it's going to take some getting used to.