OBSESSION AND SOME PRIME EXAMPLES...

Part of pencil drawing done as a teenager

I see my usual detractor is slagging me off again over on the pages and comment sections of his own blog.  Conveniently ignoring the fact that my few posts about a certain comic's falling sales are of interest to people on a blog about comics, he tries to paint the subject as an obsession of mine.  Rich, coming from someone who goes into full obsessional assault mode whenever a newspaper happens to print something about comics with which he disagrees, usually decrying it as an "anti-comic witch-hunt".

The fact that he needs to go back about 60 years for ammunition to try and support his 'pet' case on every occasion seems to me to be a prime example of something which qualifies as an obsession.  He was obviously bullied at school, and now appears to be trying to get his own back on those he takes a dislike to for all the times he had his head stuck down the toilet.  A case of being 'flushed with excess' perhaps?  Or being exposed to a 'bad effluence'?  (Thank you - I'm here all week.)

The fact that he also attributes every anonymous dissenting comment (on any topic) to the same person is another perfect example of 'obsession', to say nothing of delusion.  (It's also a pathetic and desperate attempt to create the impression that any opposing opinion to his is a minority one.)  As is me not being able to express a point of view on my own blog without a snide, negative comment by him on his (or someone else's).  The facts speak for themselves.  A comic is given a facelift and loses half its readership in a few months.  So far, no-one involved has been man enough to admit they got it wrong.  Instead, they prefer to gripe and take potshots at me for calling it like it is.

Let's be clear: the only reason he tries these tactics is because he thinks he can embarrass critics into silence if he casts enough negative aspersions their way in an attempt to cast doubt on their motivations.  The simple truth is this: the endeavour supported by him and his 'L' Plate pals (some just out of nappies going by their comments) was a massive failure, and he'd much prefer if the subject would just go away until people have forgotten about it.  That's the thing about self-styled 'experts' - they don't like to be so publicly wrong, nor to be reminded of it when they are.  

Time the boy grew up I think.  (And his tediously sycophantic cronies.) 

The PICTORIAL ARTS...

Big Thom

For those of you who like a blog with a lot of class (just like my own of course), you can't do better than to visit artist and photographer THOMAS HALLER BUCHANAN's site, The PICTORIAL ARTS.  Lots of lovely pictures, loads of wit and wisdom, and, if I'm not very much mistaken, going by his name he's of Scottish ancestry. If he shaved off his beard, he'd probably make a great JAMES BOND. (Make one out of the hair of his beard I mean.  A little hairy one.)

When you've been spoiled by all the sophisticated elegance of Thom's entrancing site, you can always come back here for more of my rapier wit, philosophical speculations, and elucidating insights - to say nothing of my usual gas-filled ramblings about anything and everything under the sun.  (So, if it rains, I'll be stuck for something to say.  Whaddya mean, you're praying for rain?)  There may even be some deluded soul trying to start a rammy with me, with any luck.  I seem to get a fair share of malcontents as well as all the wise and wonderful peeps (like Thom) who visit this humble place.

So, what on earth are you lot still hanging around here for?  Take yourselves off over to http://mydelineatedlife.blogspot.com/ and get edjumacated.

POLITICIANS? DON'T GET ME STARTED...

Politicians, eh?  While they feather their nests with cosy pensions, travel expenses, food and second home allowances, and all sorts of other top perks that no one in an 'ordinary' job ever gets to see, they're currently targeting the most vulnerable people in society, the sick, the poor, and the elderly.  The ones who don't enjoy the 'benefits system' that the politicians get to exploit.

Old people now have to work longer before they can retire (thereby exposing the nonsense of Tomorrow's World, which once assured us that, in 'the future', we'd all have much more leisure time), and people in wheelchairs and with cancer (I kid you not) are now having pressure put on them (under the false description of 'assisting' them) to return to the 'jobs market'.  (At a time when there are far fewer employment opportunities around than ever.)

Not only do some politicians pick up 'attendance fees' (actually paid for turning up for work on top of their wages - strewth), all of them have access to 25 subsidised bars in the House of Commons and goodness knows exactly how many canteens or restaurants.  Just think - those who already have far too much handed to them on a plate (literally), can partake of the finest wines, ales and spirits in the world - for a nominal fee - while you have to pay full price for your pint of Stella in a dirty glass down your local pub on a Friday night.  (A little hyperbole in that last part, but don't worry, it's free.)

And as you wonder if you have enough money to afford that microwave meal for one and a can of Coke, they tuck into a king's banquet of the most tantalisingly-delicious meals available - all laid on at our expense.  Aren't they supposed to work for us?  Do tell, pray, why they get to dictate to their collective employer (that's you and me, buster), the terms, conditions and remunerative fee for sitting about on their fat @rses all day, stuffing their faces with the best bevvy and grub that our taxed-to-the-hilt dosh can buy for them.

Remember when Norman Tebbitt told us all to "get on our bikes" and look for work?  That's rich coming from some titled tit who has at least two homes, one of which the taxpayer pays for, so that him and his spoiled ilk don't have to get on their own bikes; or rather in one of their several luxury cars which adorn the mono-blocked driveways of their country estates (or London apartments).  No sirree.  We pay their first-class transport costs to and from the plush offices in which they're supposed to toil on our behalf.  Make you sick or what?

The so-called benefit reforms currently under way, spring from nothing more than a resentment by the 'haves' of society, who begrudge having to part with even the most minimal portion of their over-abundance in order to assist the poorest and most unfortunate amongst us, the 'have nots'.

Of course, there are those who abuse the system, and no decent person is happy with the situation, but the amount of unclaimed benefit which never finds its way to those entitled to it probably far outweighs the sum collected by the spongers and malingerers in our midst.  It is certainly significant, but you don't see the government putting as much effort into ensuring that it finds its way to those who need and deserve it.

Don't be fooled:  this is Robin Hood in reverse.  (More like Robbin' B@st@rds in fact.)  The rich are stealing from the poor, the better to weather the continuing downturn in the economic climate.

Politicians?  Nothing but money-grubbing, self-serving, cheating, lying b@st@rds!

Or do you think I'm over-reacting?

SHOUTING AT CLOUDS... 'COS MY SHOES ARE TOO SMALL...

The Sunday Times, September 11th, 2011

Human nature constantly amazes me.  Certain members of the U.K. comics' so-called 'creative community', always the first to bleat on about freedom of speech or expression and their opposition to any form of censorship (when it comes to their own personal projects), are also always among the first to try and bully into silence and submission any dissenting voices to their own self-serving view of things.

Comics are in a bad way.  Sales are declining all across the board (with the possible exception of Manga) and the future doesn't look particularly good.  There are many reasons for such a situation, but we all know what they are so there's no point in repeating them here.  Suffice to say that a significant number of those who used to buy comics no longer do so, and the reasons they give for abandoning their weekly or monthly fix are that comics are now too expensive and, basically, rubbish.

One clueless chump claims that those people have simply outgrown comics, although this fails to take into account why they continue to seek out publications from an earlier age that they haven't yet read, as well as re-acquire those they once owned, either in the form of original issues or sturdy reprint volumes.  For myself, I love comics - when they're done right.  When I pick up a comic from years ago ('60s, '70s or '80s), even if it's one I've never read before, I can usually find something I like and which entertains me.

Whether it be the artwork, the story, or the mood - or some other, indefinable, quality, there's something that makes the exercise of reading it worthwhile.  I'm hard-pressed to repeat the experience when perusing a modern comic, whether it be a British or American one.  Which is not to say that there are no good comics out there, only that they're increasingly harder to find.

Some of my recent posts have come in for criticism in some quarters (mainly those with a vested interest), suggesting that if I (or anyone else) don't like something, then I should just ignore it and move on.  (A bit like witnessing a conflagration and not shouting "Fire!")  It's therefore fairly safe to assume that they don't like what I've written, which makes their reluctance to follow their own advice in such matters all the more curious.

Instead of practising what they preach, they devote themselves to sarcastic, supercilious, banal comments on their Twitter accounts (thus convincing me that such forums are aptly named, apparently catering to more than a fair share of twits), and creating false identities for the purpose of leaving feeble attempts at insults on my posts.  (Most of which I don't bother publishing because they lack the courage to affix their real names to them.)

I have read and collected comics for well over 47 years, 15 of which I worked as a full-time freelance comics contributor.  Ignoring my professional involvement for the moment, my 'civilian' interest in (and devotion to) the medium surely qualifies my opinion as informed and considered at the very least, yet a few of those who disagree with me constantly seek to dismiss my 'expertise' in the subject as ignorant and worthless.

As we all know, The Dandy is currently dying on its @rse.  D.C. Thomson won't let it, of course, because they take pride in being the publishers of the world's longest-running weekly comic.  However, what could possibly be the cause of its poor sales?  Consider the facts.  They relaunched it amid much fanfare and within a few months it had lost half its readership.  All the old tried and tested reasons for declining sales were trotted out to explain (away) the situation, despite it being obvious that they couldn't account for such a dramatic loss of sales in such a short space of time.  That's clear to anyone with a brain.

Could the fact that the comic now featured some artwork which wasn't quite as polished and professional as in previous years be responsible in some way?  Artwork which was basic, flat, crammed, repetitive, unclear and, in some cases, distinctly amateurish?  Stories that were juvenile, uninventive and, worst of all, unfunny?  Lettering fonts that were inconsistent, indecipherable and, let's face it, incompetent?  Could it be because the comic bore little resemblance to what it had once been at its best, instead looking like some kind of 'underground' comic magazine with a poorly-rendered Dandy masthead pasted on?

No to all of the above, according to the editor and some of the new artists who were behind the drastically altered look of what had once been - along with its companion paper The Beano - one of the Nation's top-selling humour periodicals.  New look - half the readers.  No such thing as cause and effect then, eh?  Must just be a coincidence.

The Dandy is part of our Nation's heritage.  It's been around longer than Superman (in published form at least) and is held in fond affection by those who have long-since ceased to purchase it for themselves, but continue to do so for their children.  (Although even that custom is now on the wane.)  It's as British as the Bulldog and the Spitfire, and we are all concerned with its current ailing state and invested in the hope that a cure can be found to restore it to its former glory.  Small wonder then, that passions run high and that newspapers devote so much space to reporting on the suspected cause of its infection.

Unfortunately, said infection seems to be of the 'superbug' variety and is resistant to treatment, or even shame at being responsible for the malady which afflicts one of the Nation's best loved comic icons.  In the absence of any effective antidote to the condition, the only hope is to resort to the ultimate solution, drastic as it may be: amputation.  Cut off the source of the infection and consign it to the furnace.

We fervently pray that D.C. Thomson decide to operate sooner rather than later, while something still remains of the patient to save.

******

UPDATE: A certain person has commented on his own blog about some of my recent posts, describing them as repetitive.  He then trots out the same tired, 'one-size-fits-all' excuses that he's resorted to so many times before (completely unaware of the irony) in an attempt to explain away in general terms the specific circumstances of The Dandy's current situation, ignoring and distorting the pertinent aspects in the process.

Oh, and he's indulging in his usual habit of ascribing motivations of his own invention to those of a different opinion to himself, in a desperate attempt to 'explain' and dismiss their point of view as irrelevant.  All delivered in his usual smug, patronising style.  Just how would we all manage without him telling us what we think and why we think it?

Here are specific reasons why the examples he cites do not satisfactorily account for things.  I am not someone picking up a comic after 20 or 30 years and being appalled by the fact that it's no longer anything like it was in 'my' day.  I have never not bought comics.  I gave up on The Dandy when they first revamped it into a 'yoof-style' magazine (because it was rubbish), and I gave up on The Beano only because of their insistence on attaching a pile of tacky poo from time to time and wanting to charge me anything up to £2 or £3 more for the dubious privilege.

I don't dislike some modern comics because they are 'modern' - I dislike some of them because they are not very good.  If I don't care for a strip, my assessment is based on whether it is pleasant to look at or not, whether one can tell at a glance what's happening on the page without hurting one's eyes, and whether it has been drawn to an admirable standard of craftsmanship.  Oh, yes - and whether it's funny.  Not because it doesn't look like the comics I bought as a mere 7-year-old boy.  When I decided that I didn't like The Dandy, I was comparing it to what it had looked like only the week before, not how it had been way back in 1937.

That's why, even though there is an element of truth (as there always is in the best 'misrepresentations') to what he says in a general sense, it falls far short of explaining the specifics.  Not all those who decry the current incarnation of The Dandy are folk who stopped buying it years ago in their youth; a sizable number are people who want to purchase it, but don't - simply because they don't consider it to be very good.  (And that accounts for at least half of the comic's former readership in 2010.)

I haven't always liked every strip in even my favourite comics; some I liked more than others, some I didn't like at all.  However, even if I liked only two or three strips per issue, I was still getting value for money because comics used to be the least expensive way available of passing an enjoyable half hour.  That's no longer the case and publishers would do well to remember it. 

Anyway, there's no point bothering with someone who refuses to recognize the facts, and who - despite however much he protests to the contrary - has a vested financial interest in 'talking-up' the comic and keeping on the good side of those who supply part of his livelihood.

He also seems to forget that I have witnessed first-hand the expediencies that some comic editors are prepared or compelled to indulge in.  I used to visit the offices of IPC every week (sometimes twice) for almost two years (working in the building from about half-six in the morning to nine at night), and know full-well that certain people were sometimes utilized only because the preferred choice was unavailable.   

Thankfully, I'm not in thrall to the same financial or 'insider' social considerations that he seems to be, and am therefore free to think and speak as I want to.

******

If you like nice art, why not give Thomas Haller Buchanan's delightful blog a visit?  Loads of lovely pictures and fascinating thoughts.  Click on http://mydelineatedlife.blogspot.com/ for your passport into a veritable Wonderland. 

MY OTHER ALAN FENNELL STORY...

Alan Fennell and unidentified Thunderbirds pilot.  Photo by Roger Elliott

No, that doesn't mean there's another ALAN FENNELL (well, not one who concerns us), only that there's another story about the legendary writer and editor to tell, which I promised to relate a good many months ago.  (I always get around to things eventually.)

During the course of one of several telephone conversations I had with Alan (may even have been the first one) in the mid-'90s, he mentioned that he used to come to my home town in the '60s to a tenpin bowling alley situated just along the road from where I then lived.  (In fact, my father used to work there, although I can't remember if he still did in 1965.)

Apparently, Alan's wife had friends or relatives in Scotland and, whenever they visited them, they would take the opportunity to come along to the bowling alley in question.  This led me to wonder aloud to Alan about the following 'what if?' scenario, which perhaps isn't as far-fetched or as unlikely as it may at first seem.

The actual bowling alley

Basically, I speculated as to whether Alan might ever have passed me in his car on his way to the bowling alley as I made my way home reading TV21, seen me, and said to his wife and friends: "Hey, that kid's reading my comic."  (A road to the alley ran past the foot of my street and was a regular route of mine.)

I was struck by the notion of perhaps being in close (but fleeting) proximity to the editor of my then-favourite comic without ever knowing it, and Alan, being the kind soul he was, indulged my flight of fancy by pretending (I assume) to be as fascinated by the idea as I was.

Not long after, Alan dropped me a letter containing a photocopy of a chocolate Dalek recipe I remembered seeing (and which had once resided for years in my mother's cookbook) in an early issue of TV21 (# 28).  This is part of what he said in his letter:

Go on - make some.  You know you want to

"Take a look at the photograph above.  [The recipe.]  Dear Roy Castle was one of the nicest people I have had the privilege to be associated with - and I remember this photo set-up and the lunches we had whilst promoting the Doctor Who and the Daleks film.

So, I'm grateful to you for reminding me of those days - and even the bowling alley!"

******

I never met Alan face-to-face (though he may have passed me in his car), and I didn't know he had died 'til a year or two after the fact - but somehow his not being around any more at times fills me with the kind of sadness normally reserved for friends and relatives.

He really was that nice a person.

******

For my first Alan Fennell story, click here.

KID KLASSICS: CALLING A SPADE A BLOODY SHOVEL DEPT...

Images copyright D.C. THOMSON & Co., Ltd

Once, in a world far away and now forgotten, there was an objective standard by which things were measured.  Alas, however, that was very long ago.  Today we live in an age of dumbing down.  Exams made easier so that more students pass; participants in a primary school race all being awarded prizes so that no-one is disappointed or feels humiliated; people being given jobs on the basis of so-called positive discrimination rather than ability or merit.

There are no longer winners or losers, no longer good or bad, right or wrong, black or white - or at least that's the way it often seems in this 'bright new world' of the 21st century.  Excellence may still sometimes be rewarded, but, all too often, so too is mediocrity.

  

In the world of political correctness in which we live today, everything is valued as being of equal worth.  That’s why a pile of bricks or half a sheep in a glass case are now accorded the same artistic legitimacy as the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, or Rembrandt and Constable paintings.  What utter tosh.  To claim that the measure of a thing’s worth is defined by whether people like it is ridiculous.  Appreciation is no indication of quality or craftsmanship.  Other criteria must also be brought to bear.

I can quite understand the natural reservations of those in any working 'community’ to make critical comment (at least publicly) on the merits of one another’s work; there is a professional courtesy at play which prevents them from doing so.  In some ways that’s a good thing, but let’s be honest – it also allows those of lesser or no ability to infiltrate the ranks, simply because it’s not regarded as ‘good form’ to point out the failings or inadequacies of others, or to unmask the impostors.

One of the reasons why the standard of children's literacy, as an example, is so appalling today is that everything created for them is aimed at their level.  That’s why many of them never progress to a higher one – they aren't enticed or encouraged or motivated to.  If you give them nothing but inferior quality, that’s what they learn to appreciate.  But what if children like it?  Children have the capacity to like whatever is put in front of them, but that's no excuse for giving them substandard fare.

Without wishing to offend anyone, there are certain strips in the current incarnation of The Dandy which simply don’t measure up to an objective standard.  And don't be misled by those who claim there isn't one.  It's that kind of woolly thinking that has resulted in unmade beds on display in art galleries.  Also, there are some art styles which do not readily lend themselves to the medium of sequential storytelling in general, or children’s comics in particular.

Contrariwise, Ken H. Harrison, for example, has a fantastically fluid art style and brilliantly clear sense of storytelling that fulfils the highest standard expected of a comic strip.  He is the only artist to draw The Broons and Oor Wullie who has even come near - or is on - the same level as Dudley D. Watkins, talent-wise. There are some who don’t even come close, judging by the standard of the work they submit.  Could they do better?  Perhaps, but what they are doing just doesn’t cut it.

And before I'm subjected to the same old tired, predictable and erroneous accusations of envy, bitterness, etc., etc., I’m merely speaking as a comics consumer, not a former professional comics contributor.  I am not comparing those whose work I dislike against any level of artistic ability I perceive, pretend, imagine, wish, or delude myself I may have, but rather the recognized 'greats' of yesteryear and today.  Artists of the calibre of Bave, Baxendale, Brown, Grigg, Harrison, Law, Main, Martin, Mevin, Millington, Nadal, Nixon, Parkinson, Petrie, Parlett, Paterson, Reid, Ritchie, Sutherland, Titcombe, Watkins, and a whole host of others far too numerous to mention.

   

Today we live in an age where the utmost quality is no longer the main consideration - or even a requirement.  In short, anything goes.  Unfortunately, one of the first things to go was a regard for standards.  We can only hope that it's due to make its return sometime soon.

******

(First posted September 16th, 2011.) 

HOW TO GET STARTED IN COMICS AND LAST THE COURSE...

The answer is simple.  Be good at what you do.  Try and be at least as good as the very best, or even better if you can be.  And don't be deterred when those who aren't very good at what they do seem to get the breaks and you don't.  That sometimes happens when editors who aren't very good at what they do (and there's a lot of them) try and be different for the sake of it, or simply act out of expediency or desperation.

And if or when you do get the breaks, don't ever think that you can't or don't need to be better than you are.  There's always someone behind you looking to take your place.  And remember... even if you've got a lot of talent, you also often need a lot of luck.  This might not seem fair, especially as those with little (or no) talent who got there before you only seem to have required a little luck, but that's sometimes the way the cookie crumbles.

Finally, whatever you do, when you see some talentless hack get his work published, don't be tempted to think that if he can get by with drawing badly rendered, incomprehensible, splodgy, childish scribbles, that you can too.  Never take the easy route, even if it seems to be what's in vogue at the time.  Tastes change, but talent is forever.  So, work at being talented, not popular.  That'll take care of itself.

And if you do make it, don't forget that you're in a minority niche market in which the majority of the population have little interest, so don't become a smug, arrogant prat towards those outside of your little 'club'.  Remember that some people may have higher and more lucrative aspirations.  (And may well have achieved them for all you know.)

  

Now there's some truly smart advice.

PRESENTING A PERSONAL PERUSAL Of A 'POWER PACK' PUBLICATION...

Copyright MARVEL COMICS, except The MISSING LINK

One of my very favourite comics from the past is one that regular readers of this humble blog will likely have noticed me mention before - FANTASTIC.  This worthy weekly was published by ODHAMS PRESS, the debut issue being cover-dated February 18th, 1967.  At the time of its release, I was too busy lusting over the womanly charms of SUSAN STORM in the pages of WHAM! to pay much heed to the arrival of this new mag, but my mother bought me a later issue from a newsagent's kiosk on our way home from the shops one afternoon.

The issue in question was #7 (cover-dated April 1st) - and from there on I was hooked!  How could I not be, with simply stunning stories like THOR - "The THUNDER GOD And The THUG!", X-MEN - "TRAPPED: ONE X-MAN!", IRON MAN - "Versus KALA, QUEEN Of The NETHERWORLD!", alongside the superb adventures of The MISSING LINK for good measure?  I soon acquired the earlier issues, and it wasn't too long before I became a POWER COMICS junkie, buying all five weekly publications regularly.  (Wham!, SMASH!, POW!, Fantastic, and TERRIFIC.)

Fantastic had 40 pages per issue, but not even that could accommodate the above tales in their entirety, so only the first halves of the Thor and X-Men stories were presented, the remainder of these particular adventures being completed the following week.  The three featured classic LEE/KIRBY/HECK MARVEL epics were printed in black and white, but that - and the fact that some characters' names were changed from their American originals - didn't seem to spoil the readers' enjoyment one whit.

For example, the nubile BLACK WIDOW's name of NATASHA was altered to NATASIA (though I think that both are pronounced the same way) and The RED GHOST's moniker was changed (for reasons that later became obvious to me) to The APE MASTER.  I can still remember my astonishment in a shop one day (CORSON'S) at seeing this same FF story in COLLECTORS' ITEM CLASSICS #6 after I had already read it in WHAM! and being bewildered at the altered appellation of the baddie.  How was it possible, I wondered?

Nowadays, of course, I can see that the amended lettering in the British reprints is readily discernible, though it wasn't quite so apparent to me back when I was a lickle kidlet.  (Okay, I was 8 - but that's still 'lickle' in my book.)  Anyway, I have very fond memories of Fantastic #7, so I thought I'd kindly share a few pages with you here.  Remember, if you enjoy them half as much as me, then I'll have enjoyed them twice as much as you.  (Profound, or what?)  Doh!

CHARITY BEGINS... WHERE, EXACTLY...?

Have you ever encountered such startling levels of stupidity as to make you want to wring your hands in sheer frustration and despair - or even the necks of po-faced, petty perpetrators of moronic madness on a massively-monumental scale?  (Yes, I know "massively" is redundant in that sentence, but I'm waxing lyrical.)  Here is such a tale.

So, I'm walking past a charity shop in the main shopping centre of my town when I see a teddy bear through the glass frontage and decide to buy it for someone I know.  I ask inside and am told it's not for sale - it's a display item only.  At the back of the shop are various other teddies of diverse shapes and sizes sitting on a low shelf, which are for sale.  "Can't you sell me the teddy I want and replace it with one of the others?" I enquire.  In short, "No!"

"Why not?" I ask politely.  "Because it's for display only, not for sale!" comes the reply.  The shop's most expensive teddy is only £3, so I offer them a tenner for the one I want.  "It's not for sale!" I'm told again.  "But can't you use one of the other bears for display?" I again venture.  "No!" I'm told.

I'll give you the abridged version of events, otherwise we'll be here all week.  In short, over the course of several days, I speak to assistant managers, managers, supervisors at head office, blah, blah, blah, and ask why it's so bloody difficult to purchase a teddy from them and swell their coffers by a tenner - more than three times the amount they're asking for one of Ted's even bigger-sized pals.  This is what I'm told:

1) "Our staff aren't trained to rearrange the displays."  (Can you believe this cr*p?  Not trained to take one ted from a shelf at the back of the shop and swap it for one near the front?  Gimme a break.)

2) "We want our displays to look their very best to entice people into the shop."  (Fine, but what's the point of enticing them in if you're then going to refuse to sell them the very item that caught their attention and which they want to buy?  Isn't the raison d'etre of the charity to raise money?) 

3) "Our staff are too busy to accommodate individual customer requests."  (I pass this shop practically every day.  It's in a remote corner of the shopping centre and as quiet as the tomb.  I don't think I've ever seen more than two customers in the place since it opened last year, and the staff sit around looking bored for most of the time.)

4) "It's our policy.  If we make an exception for you, we'd have to do it for everyone."  (Well, then it wouldn't be an exception, would it?  But we'll let that loopy lapse in logic pass.)  I thought it was their policy to raise money for charity, by selling items that people donate for that very purpose - not to try and win the 'window display of the year' award and deter folks from spending cash by refusing to take it from them in exchange for that which they wish to purchase.)

I'm on my soapbox now, but consider the absurdity of the situation.  They're turning money away, instead of grabbing it and saying: "Thanks very much, do call again!"  Their mission should be to sell everything they've got as quickly as possible, and then replenish their displays from fresh donations - not say "I can't sell you the item you want because it'll mess up our display and we'll have to start again!"  No, we can't have them inconvenienced, can we?  That would never do.  Not even when some cold, hard cash is at stake.

Charities are run (so I've always thought) to benefit the recipients of said charities, not the organisers, and the best way to facilitate that is to (in the words of the song) "keep the customer satisfied", not alienate them by implementing and enforcing ludicrous diktats. They're there to make money for the less fortunate, not refuse it on the grounds that moving one soft toy into the position of another is "against policy'" or is beyond the abilities (or inclination) of the staff.

In the end, I got Ted, who now sits proudly in the living room of the person for whom he was purchased.  I also bought the other one (which likewise went to a good home), thereby adding £13 to the charity's funds.  Cash I had to practically force on them by kicking up a fuss and reminding them that such places exist to help others less fortunate, not to fulfil the ambitions of those who want to rule over their own private fiefdoms in a self-indulgent attempt to satisfy their feelings of self-importance.

Rant over.

******

(Incidentally, I should perhaps add that I had previously seen items in the window with 'sold' signs on them, and I subsequently discovered that display items could be sold, but had to remain in the window display until it was changed, which was usually every fortnight.  The shop still operates this way today, so why I was never told that I could pay for Ted and collect him later at the end of his service remains a mystery.)

"BIFFO The BEAR Is An EASTER EGG With LEGS..."

Biffo the Bear - he's a good egg



One wintry, snow-clouded night in the late '70s (I think), myself and a friend were heading home after visiting a mutual acquaintance.  As we were passing a block of flats, a motion at one of the windows on the first floor caught our attention and we stopped to observe what was happening.  A parent, in the act of putting his child to bed for the night, was writing on the condensation on the inside of the glass pane as the infant bounced excitedly up and down in the background.  (We could just see the top of the head, popping into view every few seconds.)

We stood transfixed, trying to decipher the reversed writing (accompanied by an oval-shaped figure) as, word by word, it took form before us - "Biffo... the... Bear... is... an... Easter... egg... with... legs!"  We fell about laughing at the silliness of the proposition, and, judging by the sound of muffled merriment emanating from within, the youngster was equally amused.  Then the snow and the wind caught us on the nape of our necks and propelled us, much cheered by our diversion, in the direction of home and the promise of our own warm beds awaiting us at journey's end. (I was reminded at the time of a similar scene in The WIND In The WILLOWS.)

If memory serves, at the time of this incident my friend was home on leave from the Navy, having joined not long before.  (Or, if memory fails to serve, he joined not long after.) We kept in touch via the occasional letter and it very soon became almost a custom for each of us to finish our episodic epistles with the slogan "Biffo the Bear is an Easter egg with legs!" I could neither read nor write the catchphrase without images of the night in question springing to mind, and having a hearty chuckle at the memory.  Naturally, I assumed that my friend viewed the occurrence through the same nostalgia-tinted spectacles as myself. It was one of those shared moments that neither of us were likely to forget.

Or so I thought.  Imagine my surprise then, when on a short visit back home with his new wife a year or two later, my friend enquired of me whence the slogan that we so freely bandied about between ourselves had originated*. "Don't you remember?" I asked, somewhat puzzled by his lack of recollection.  He didn't, so I gave him a quick recap of the events of that snow-swept night only a Winter or two before. He still couldn't recall, and explained that he only used the phrase because I did, and because he found it funny.

Odd, isn't it?  Sometimes, moments (or things) that folk regard as having, in some indefinable way, bonded them together - whether it be with friends, brothers, sisters, or lovers - and which they imagine to be fondly-recalled points in their mutual histories and experiences, turn out to be entirely one-sided affairs, having far more significance to one of them than the other.

It reminds me of times when I'd hear my father recount to my mother an obviously cherished moment from their past, followed by the expectant words "Don't you remember, dear?" - only to be met by a blank stare, a bewildered shake of the head, and a disheartening "No!"  I suddenly comprehend, with an insight and clarity that only time can bring, the disappointment etched on his face and no doubt in his heart.  (Such moments also happened in reverse, of course.)

I sometimes wonder how many friendships, relationships, or acquaintanceships survive only on the ghost of a memory of some past event that one of the parties involved has long-since forgotten - if, indeed, they ever remembered in the first place.  Kind of sad to consider, don't you think?

(*And he did so in the very flat of the person we were making our way home from on the night we witnessed the event, as he and his wife were staying there during their visit.)  

******

(Note to overseas readers: BIFFO The BEAR was - and occasionally still is - a character in the famous U.K. comic, The BEANO - published weekly by D.C. THOMSON since 1938 and still going strong-ish.)

WHAT'S WRONG WITH U.S. COMICBOOKS THESE DAYS? LEMME TELL YOU...

Images copyright their respective owners

What's wrong with modern-day American comicbooks?  Well, it's obvious, isn't it?  They're sh*te!  You don't need me to tell you that.  But why are they like that, you may wonder.  One word: Adults.  Yep.  Adults are/is the problem.  (You can sort out the grammar for yourselves.)

Once upon a time, comics were produced for a readership of kids from about 5 to 14.  There were a few older people who read them as well, of course, but most of them tended to have no friends and smelt a little odd.  What's more, the readership constantly renewed itself; once you grew too old for comics (usually when you discovered girls, Melvin), another batch of kids were right behind you, ready to take your place in the scheme of things.

Then MARVEL COMICS hit the scene and things changed forever.  Suddenly comics were cool, not to mention interesting.  The comics buying public couldn't get enough of them, and, what's more, were reluctant to give up on them even when the siren call of the opposite sex first made itself heard in the hearts, minds and loins of pimply-faced males everywhere.  So they continued to read and collect them well past the age that former generations of readers had traditionally abandoned them for other pursuits, even into adulthood.

This created a problem.  No grown-up wants to be associated with childish interests, so the readership expected - nay, demanded - that their comics grow up with them and reflect their 'adult' tastes and sensibilities.  Also, some of the fans became writers and were only too happy to oblige, being of a like-minded opinion.  On top of that, they wanted to be seen not as purveyors of simple kiddie-fare, but as creators of an artform that was socially 'relevant' and worthy of serious consideration.

That's when the decline set in.  Eventually, characters like SUPERMAN and SPIDER-MAN got married (no, not to each other) because the 'creators-who'd-once-been-fans' were married and wanted to write about subjects of which they had experience; that reflected their lives and those of their friends.  Embarrassed by their origins as ephemeral amusement for children, comics became too serious (to say nothing of pretentious) in their quest to be regarded as 'legitimate' literature.  Add to that the direct sales market and the ever-increasing cost of what had once been the cheapest form of entertainment available, and whatever remained of any childhood or young teenage readership simply dissipated over time.

That's the 'Reader's Digest' account, but you get the gist.  So what's the solution?  Simple.  Publishers need to get back to producing mass-marketed, inexpensive comics for children (and those who keep the spirit of childhood alive within them).  Forget fancy and expensive paper, socially relevant themes, 'arty-farty', clear as mud, photo-realistic artwork.  Simply give people what they're crying out for - good, old-fashioned, entertaining tales to divert attention from life's harsh realities and which will take readers on a rip-roaring, magic-carpet ride into worlds of fantasy and enchantment.

Remember... comicbooks once sold in their millions when the above recipe was the order of the day.  Something to consider perhaps?  (The above covers represent, to me, examples of when comics were more-or-less at their best.)

ONE LAST WALK...

Zara Thustrasia

When I was much younger than I am now (a child in fact), I subscribed to the notion of 'best' friends.  There's an irony in the concept of course, because a best friend isn't someone who is necessarily 'better' than other friends, but is instead merely one whom we like more than the rest.  Over the years, I'm sure I've been a better friend to some people than those they'd regard as their 'best' pal, but I'm never going to be eligible for the position.  (Not that I'd want or even try to be.)

So I long ago abandoned the idea of best friends - as far as people go.  However, anyone who has ever had a dog will know that the only species on the planet fit to qualify for such an accolade is the canine one.  Dogs are always genuinely glad to see us, never bear a grudge for however many times we've scolded them over some doggie-misdemeanour, and their chief delight in life is to lie at our feet or by our side and simply bask in the  pleasure of our company.



My dog passed on to the great 'Kennel Club in the sky' over thirteen years ago.  ZARA was her name; a black and gold German Shepherd of the most placid temperament imaginable.  She lived for twelve years, seven months, and I still remember the sound of her, near the end of her days, trying to drag herself up the stairs to my room simply to be with me.  (When I heard her, I'd go downstairs and carry her up.)

What a poseur

She had cauda equina, a condition which 'fused' the nerves in her spine together, making it difficult for her to walk.  I'd noticed it was getting worse and mentioned it to the vet when Zara was getting her annual booster jags.  "She'll be fine for years yet!" he'd said.  Seven or so days later, she could hardly walk, so I took her back and the first thing he said on sight of her was: "That dog should be put to sleep!"  I reminded him that only a week before, he'd said she was in fine form.  "A lot can change in a week!" he muttered.  X-rays revealed that she'd also developed internal tumours, for which nothing could be done.

I explained that, as long as she wasn't in any pain, putting her to sleep wasn't an option I was prepared to consider at that time.  He gave her a course of tablets, but said that they'd only be of short-term benefit.  A fortnight later, for the first time, she had difficulty breathing.  It was the night of November 25th, 1998 and I'd hoped Zara might see one more Christmas at the very least.  I fetched the Christmas tree down from the attic and put it up in the living-room, switching on the tree lights so that she could watch them twinkling in the gloom.

When morning came, I rang the vet and then carried Zara up to my room, and placed her on my bed to make her as comfortable as possible.  When the vet arrived, Zara lifted her head to look at him - then looked at me, licked my hand, and laid down her head with a sigh - almost of relief.  After examining her, the vet confirmed it'd be better to put her to sleep.  Still clinging to some forlorn hope, I said that if there were any other options, regardless of expense, I'd prefer to explore them first.  He shook his head sadly.  "No, it's time" he said.

Zara as a pup

I signed for the lethal injection, which the vet then went out to his car to fetch.  When he returned, he said: "Her circulatory system is 'down', so I'll have to inject it straight into her heart.  It isn't going to be pleasant - you might want to leave the room."  I was holding Zara's paw and stroking her head, determined to be with her to the end.  It was the least I could do - she'd always been there for me.  "I'll stay" I said.

The vet administered the injection, stood back and watched.  After a while, he said: "I'm sorry, this has never happened before - she won't die."  Consumed with guilt, I protested that if she could resist a lethal injection, maybe something could've been done for her after all.  "No, she's got a strong heart, but she needs more than that to survive" he replied.  Finally, he'd no choice but to fetch another injection to administer.  Zara eventually breathed her last, to the sounds of 'Walking In The Air' from a wind-up Snowman doing its slow, circular dance close by.

I then had to help the vet put Zara in a bag and carry her out to his car.  I'd arranged with him to have her privately cremated in a place called 'Elysium Fields', but it couldn't be done until after the weekend.  On the appointed day, a friend, who was a minister, ran me through, and Zara was laid out on display before me.  She looked like she was sleeping, but she was frozen solid.  I stroked her fur for one last time, before my friend said a few words and read a poem over her, and she was then taken off to be 'attended' to.

Having fun in the back garden

I didn't know that the process would take two hours, so we sat in a cafe until it was time to collect her ashes.  I was struck by how long they retained their warmth - as if, in some strange way, life itself yet lingered.  Four years later, I finally scattered them in the back garden, where her spirit probably runs around snapping at wasps to this day.

I probably shouldn't divulge this, but on the day I scattered her ashes, I first looped her lead through the handle of the bag that the box was in, and took her for one last walk around the places she'd known and loved when she was alive.  I don't know whether anyone noticed me taking a carrier bag on a lead for a stroll - I'd have got some strange looks if they had, but it was something I felt compelled to do.  If you've ever had a dog, you'll understand; if not, you'll think I'm completely bonkers.  (Not that I was dragging the bag behind me - it was by my side.)

Two best friends - in one last walk together.  What could be more fitting?

******

ZARA THUSTRASIA ROBSON

May 3rd, 1986 - November 26th, 1998

******

 "Well!  I've seen men go to courageous death
In the air, on sea, on land!
But only a dog would spend his breath
In a kiss for his murderer's hand.

And if there's no heaven for love like that,
For such four-legged fealty - well!
If I have any choice, I tell you flat,
I'll take my chance in hell."

From "Rags" - by Edmund Vance Cooke.