Man, I'm beat. I was up past midnight last night putting the finishing touches to the art for the comic, and it took me a couple of hours to get the pdf right this morning. And then I had to do it all again because I'd done it wrong. And then, as I was reading it again just to make me feel better that it actually is funny and entertaining, I noticed that I'd not finished the speech bubbles on the last page! So back to the pdf again!
But it's all done. And sent off to the printer. And thank you for reading about all this crap because it really has helped to clock my progress as I've gone along - kind of a shoulder massage for the forebrain. Now I'll shut up about it until the last weekend in February, okay?
. . . . .
Nice time tonight with some people from work, just shooting the shit about our ridiculous job, and the people we work with and serve every day. We've had a difficult time these last three months, but we've all got through it so far, and managed to stay sane.
The next step is interviews, starting February 18th, and we'll get through that, too. What else can we do? Let "The Man" win? Damn The Man! DAMN THE MAN!!!
. . . . .
I took the little one to Berzerk! today and she had a blast, as usual. It's this giant indoor playground, with slides, and bouncy castles, and ball pits, and she just throws herself around it until she's sweaty and thirsty and ready to go home. It's the best £2.75 you'll ever spend (apart from buying my comic and a packet of Transforma Snacks, anyway) and I really wish they did them for adults.
But then I got to thinking - adults fucking around on stuff usually involves alcohol. And alcohol means vomit. I can't imagine how you clean vomit out of a ballpit. And that's why they don't have them for adults, I guess.
Thursday, January 31, 2013
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
30/01/13: POINTLESS
I almost got into an argument about politics with my Dad again today. It's something I stopped doing a while ago, because my Dad and I are increasingly on opposite ends of the political spectrum. He's an arch-Tory, who once said that our public schools produced our leaders and we should let them get on with it. I'm getting more and more left wing the older I get, and I'm this close to starting a commune.
Towards the end, before I stopped starting any kind of discussion about the modern world, our arguments would largely end with him claiming to have heard evidence for his ridiculous position - one often affecting the quality of life of him, me, and all of us - on Radio 4, and me telling him to, "SHUT THE FUCK UP!" because his people were wrecking everything I've worked for. So, yeah, I told him, we could never discuss politics again. Ever.
But seeing a piece in the paper about this retarded "spare room tax" that local authorities now have the power to levy - whereby people in receipt of housing benefit can have that benefit reduced if they have unused bedrooms - and knowing that my Dad is probably going to be affected by this down the line, made me think it might be worth discussing. You'd think, yeah?
Nope. So I stopped it in its tracks before he could praise our glorious leaders. Lesson learned: never fight water.
I know it's a weekly tradition by now, and one I don't care if you enjoy or not, but Africa was awesome again tonight. We got more fights - zebras this time - and more insane adaptations to life in a harsh climate: how sci-fi were those silver ants?
It got me thinking, though... Is there any good reason why we haven't covered the Sahara Desert in solar panels? Surely if we could we'd produce masses of power that would reduce our reliability on oil and gas and shit? People could even live in their shade! There must be a good reason why they've not done it - socio-political difficulties, logistical problems, the lobbying pressure of Big Oil™ - but get over it, eh!
. . . . .
I killed the shit out of the comic yesterday and today, and I've only got one page left to finish. It's been a battle, mostly of my own making, and I need to schedule the production of issue 2 a lot better. Yeah, there'll be an issue 2, because it has been fun, but it's been a constant nag that I could have managed better.
It'll be out on February 23rd at the London Super Comic Convention, for you comic-show attending hipsters, and in Close Encounters in Northampton (and maybe some other shops), and online shortly after that. At £2.50 it'll be less than a pint. Nice.
Towards the end, before I stopped starting any kind of discussion about the modern world, our arguments would largely end with him claiming to have heard evidence for his ridiculous position - one often affecting the quality of life of him, me, and all of us - on Radio 4, and me telling him to, "SHUT THE FUCK UP!" because his people were wrecking everything I've worked for. So, yeah, I told him, we could never discuss politics again. Ever.
But seeing a piece in the paper about this retarded "spare room tax" that local authorities now have the power to levy - whereby people in receipt of housing benefit can have that benefit reduced if they have unused bedrooms - and knowing that my Dad is probably going to be affected by this down the line, made me think it might be worth discussing. You'd think, yeah?
Nope. So I stopped it in its tracks before he could praise our glorious leaders. Lesson learned: never fight water.
. . . . .
I know it's a weekly tradition by now, and one I don't care if you enjoy or not, but Africa was awesome again tonight. We got more fights - zebras this time - and more insane adaptations to life in a harsh climate: how sci-fi were those silver ants?
It got me thinking, though... Is there any good reason why we haven't covered the Sahara Desert in solar panels? Surely if we could we'd produce masses of power that would reduce our reliability on oil and gas and shit? People could even live in their shade! There must be a good reason why they've not done it - socio-political difficulties, logistical problems, the lobbying pressure of Big Oil™ - but get over it, eh!
. . . . .
I killed the shit out of the comic yesterday and today, and I've only got one page left to finish. It's been a battle, mostly of my own making, and I need to schedule the production of issue 2 a lot better. Yeah, there'll be an issue 2, because it has been fun, but it's been a constant nag that I could have managed better.
It'll be out on February 23rd at the London Super Comic Convention, for you comic-show attending hipsters, and in Close Encounters in Northampton (and maybe some other shops), and online shortly after that. At £2.50 it'll be less than a pint. Nice.
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
29/01/13: CHAINED
I didn't even get dressed today. Didn't put my lenses in, didn't shave, just put my glasses on and got straight on with the business at hand: drawing comics. I'm getting near the end now, so pretty soon I'll have something else to write about. I may even venture out into the outside world and do something worth writing a blog about. You just might be that lucky.
So, yeah, I had a productive day. Just a couple of pages left and the comic is all finished and ready to go ff to the printers. I'm 75% happy with it, which is a good 50% more than I usually am, so that's a good thing, right? HeyJude! has seen bits of it and he says it's funny, so blame him if it isn't. I think I even managed to draw girls okay! That, my friends, is progress.
I also got my first non-spam comment on the webcomic today, from someone (apparently) in Germany, to boot! I reprint here in its full German glory:
Hallo!
Und grüße von sonnigem Stuttgart!!!
Ich liebe dieses komische, es berühre mich in den plätzen, nicht, das anderes komisches mich vorher berührt hat.. Ich hoffe diesen einen tag, die hauptfigur habe sex mit dem Zauberer, ich würde interessiert, um zu sehen, wie groß seine penis ist
Haben Sie einen wunderbaren tag, und erhalten Sie die große Arbeit! Tschuss!!!
Martin
Or in English:
Hello!
And greetings from sunny Stuttgart!
I love this comic, it touch me in places, not the other comic I was touched before .. I hope that one day, the main character had sex with the magician, I would be interested to see how big his penis
Have a wonderful day, and you get the great work! Tschuss!
Martin
I feel complete.
I'm five episodes into season 5 of Fringe and it is captivating and confusing and frustrating and satisfying and unsatisfying, and lots of other words. The Observers are fully creepy and hateful, and their new villainous scheme is a great extension of their role in previous series - it makes it worse that we saw how good one of them could be, before he got shot to death. I miss that guy.
There's another eight episodes to watch and then it's done, another JJ Abrams series in the books, and one which didn't last long enough for some people, too long for others, but which had more ideas in it than most networks manage in a decade. More, yeah?
The Factory of Sadness opened its gates again tonight, with predictable and depressing results. How much longer can this go on? Until it stops, I suppose. A slow, slow death in thirty-eight parts.
So, yeah, I had a productive day. Just a couple of pages left and the comic is all finished and ready to go ff to the printers. I'm 75% happy with it, which is a good 50% more than I usually am, so that's a good thing, right? HeyJude! has seen bits of it and he says it's funny, so blame him if it isn't. I think I even managed to draw girls okay! That, my friends, is progress.
I also got my first non-spam comment on the webcomic today, from someone (apparently) in Germany, to boot! I reprint here in its full German glory:
Hallo!
Und grüße von sonnigem Stuttgart!!!
Ich liebe dieses komische, es berühre mich in den plätzen, nicht, das anderes komisches mich vorher berührt hat.. Ich hoffe diesen einen tag, die hauptfigur habe sex mit dem Zauberer, ich würde interessiert, um zu sehen, wie groß seine penis ist
Haben Sie einen wunderbaren tag, und erhalten Sie die große Arbeit! Tschuss!!!
Martin
Or in English:
Hello!
And greetings from sunny Stuttgart!
I love this comic, it touch me in places, not the other comic I was touched before .. I hope that one day, the main character had sex with the magician, I would be interested to see how big his penis
Have a wonderful day, and you get the great work! Tschuss!
Martin
I feel complete.
. . . . .
I'm five episodes into season 5 of Fringe and it is captivating and confusing and frustrating and satisfying and unsatisfying, and lots of other words. The Observers are fully creepy and hateful, and their new villainous scheme is a great extension of their role in previous series - it makes it worse that we saw how good one of them could be, before he got shot to death. I miss that guy.
There's another eight episodes to watch and then it's done, another JJ Abrams series in the books, and one which didn't last long enough for some people, too long for others, but which had more ideas in it than most networks manage in a decade. More, yeah?
. . . . .
The Factory of Sadness opened its gates again tonight, with predictable and depressing results. How much longer can this go on? Until it stops, I suppose. A slow, slow death in thirty-eight parts.
Monday, January 28, 2013
28/01/13: I AM MACHINE
Enormously productive day today.
Had a contact lenses appointment with an optician who could have been Jeremy Speight's brother, and found that my right eye has, as I thought, gotten a lot worse. Fuck it, still a long way to go before I'm in Magoo territory. That's a reference for you kids, there. Mister fucking Magoo. What was up with that? A crotchety old blind man? Kids love that! So, yeah, new lenses for my right eye, same old for the left.
Jezza tried to sell me some new lenses, called Oxy-something. They let your eye breathe or something. For only 40% more than I pay now! My eyes can fucking suffocate before I'll spend an extra £9 on that upgrade. Now if he'd offered lenses with TVs on or something cool we might have had a deal.
Then I went to Ikea. Now I loves me some Ikea. I've loved it ever since I went to my first ever one, in Houston in 1996. I loved it when I couldn't afford anything from there, and I loved it when I filled my house with their brilliant furniture. The only rocky part of our relationship was when I bought a sofa from there and it wasn't all that great of a sofa. A man has to be sofa-happy. The sofa I replaced it with, sadly not from Ikea, has been the best thing I ever bought. See? Sofa-happy.
Didn't buy much today, but it doesn't matter. Because it's an amazing place. Don't see it? You don't get it. It's that simple. If fate had been kinder we'd have an Ikea in Northampton, but a combination of Grange Park NIMBYs and a council stupidly hellbent on protecting the shitty Grosvenor Centre put paid to it. The fools! Milton Keynes got it, and we got shafted. Again. So now I have to go to the outskirts of Bletchley. Even that is worth it. Yeah, Ikea!
After that - well, after buying some pants and some bolt-locks from AsDa - I came home and drew. ALL DAY LONG. Got a load done. All the pencils are done, and I inked three pages. Just seven or eight pages to ink now. On schedule for a Friday finish and BOOM! my time is mine again. For about a day.
Busy is good. Stepford busy.
Zayn from 1Direction flew back to the UK yesterday for crisis talks with his girlfriend, Perrie from Little Mix. He'd been splashed all over the Sunday papers for having fucked a slag in America and... WHOAH WHOAH WHOAH! I thought Max Clifford would be lying low after his arrest for noncing, but this shit has his hallmarks written all over it.
The kiss and tell is a staple of tabloid journalism. It's a shitty business, but if you lie down with dogs you get crabs. Most of the time it's not actually a kiss and tell, it's an entirely ghosted affair, pun intended. Both parties are fully aware of what's going on, and it's done for reasons of exposure, an image change, or just to hide the fact that one - or both - of the parties are as gay as a window.
The mutual benefit ones are the ones to watch out for - like a black footballer rumoured to be gay marrying a female pop star accused of being racist. Look hard enough, you'll find they're both clients of the same publicist. Or record label. Or came from the same TV show. Now I'm not sure what Perrie's getting out of this - maybe she likes girls, or has a secret boyfriend she'd rather keep out of the papers, but this latest scandal has Clifford written all over it. Prison can't come quick enough for him.
. . . . .
There's trouble in Syria. It's been a virtual civil war there for the past couple of years. And in a lot of areas, a lot of collateral damage has been done, and the emergency services - what's left of them - are stretched to breaking point. One thing they could really do with is some fire engines - giving a bit of money to help buy them is a good way for everyone, especially pacifists, to feel like they are doing something. I applaud it.
But someone on my Facebook is doing a sponsored climb of Snowdon to raise money. Is it just me or is that a bit shit? Doing any of these sponsored things where you - or somebody on your behalf - pays money for you to do something amazing (and mostly life-threatening and resource-draining if it goes wrong) is a ridiculous thing that could only ever exist in this ludicrous world we've created for ourselves. A good editor would reject it from any speculative fiction so why does it happen? JUST GIVE THE FUCKING MONEY. Ghod!
Had a contact lenses appointment with an optician who could have been Jeremy Speight's brother, and found that my right eye has, as I thought, gotten a lot worse. Fuck it, still a long way to go before I'm in Magoo territory. That's a reference for you kids, there. Mister fucking Magoo. What was up with that? A crotchety old blind man? Kids love that! So, yeah, new lenses for my right eye, same old for the left.
Jezza tried to sell me some new lenses, called Oxy-something. They let your eye breathe or something. For only 40% more than I pay now! My eyes can fucking suffocate before I'll spend an extra £9 on that upgrade. Now if he'd offered lenses with TVs on or something cool we might have had a deal.
Then I went to Ikea. Now I loves me some Ikea. I've loved it ever since I went to my first ever one, in Houston in 1996. I loved it when I couldn't afford anything from there, and I loved it when I filled my house with their brilliant furniture. The only rocky part of our relationship was when I bought a sofa from there and it wasn't all that great of a sofa. A man has to be sofa-happy. The sofa I replaced it with, sadly not from Ikea, has been the best thing I ever bought. See? Sofa-happy.
Didn't buy much today, but it doesn't matter. Because it's an amazing place. Don't see it? You don't get it. It's that simple. If fate had been kinder we'd have an Ikea in Northampton, but a combination of Grange Park NIMBYs and a council stupidly hellbent on protecting the shitty Grosvenor Centre put paid to it. The fools! Milton Keynes got it, and we got shafted. Again. So now I have to go to the outskirts of Bletchley. Even that is worth it. Yeah, Ikea!
After that - well, after buying some pants and some bolt-locks from AsDa - I came home and drew. ALL DAY LONG. Got a load done. All the pencils are done, and I inked three pages. Just seven or eight pages to ink now. On schedule for a Friday finish and BOOM! my time is mine again. For about a day.
Busy is good. Stepford busy.
. . . . .
Zayn from 1Direction flew back to the UK yesterday for crisis talks with his girlfriend, Perrie from Little Mix. He'd been splashed all over the Sunday papers for having fucked a slag in America and... WHOAH WHOAH WHOAH! I thought Max Clifford would be lying low after his arrest for noncing, but this shit has his hallmarks written all over it.
The kiss and tell is a staple of tabloid journalism. It's a shitty business, but if you lie down with dogs you get crabs. Most of the time it's not actually a kiss and tell, it's an entirely ghosted affair, pun intended. Both parties are fully aware of what's going on, and it's done for reasons of exposure, an image change, or just to hide the fact that one - or both - of the parties are as gay as a window.
The mutual benefit ones are the ones to watch out for - like a black footballer rumoured to be gay marrying a female pop star accused of being racist. Look hard enough, you'll find they're both clients of the same publicist. Or record label. Or came from the same TV show. Now I'm not sure what Perrie's getting out of this - maybe she likes girls, or has a secret boyfriend she'd rather keep out of the papers, but this latest scandal has Clifford written all over it. Prison can't come quick enough for him.
. . . . .
There's trouble in Syria. It's been a virtual civil war there for the past couple of years. And in a lot of areas, a lot of collateral damage has been done, and the emergency services - what's left of them - are stretched to breaking point. One thing they could really do with is some fire engines - giving a bit of money to help buy them is a good way for everyone, especially pacifists, to feel like they are doing something. I applaud it.
But someone on my Facebook is doing a sponsored climb of Snowdon to raise money. Is it just me or is that a bit shit? Doing any of these sponsored things where you - or somebody on your behalf - pays money for you to do something amazing (and mostly life-threatening and resource-draining if it goes wrong) is a ridiculous thing that could only ever exist in this ludicrous world we've created for ourselves. A good editor would reject it from any speculative fiction so why does it happen? JUST GIVE THE FUCKING MONEY. Ghod!
Sunday, January 27, 2013
27/01/13: THE HURT SUBSIDES
Both my pains eased today. This is a good thing. We'll soon have a new blankie in the house, making everything right in his inanimate, pink way, and my ear will soon be better. This is the way of the world. The world is good.
I hung out at the comic shop a tiny bit today, squeezing in a visit in what's been a hectic week. The shop was busy, with lots of passing trade, which is another very good thing. They even sold three of my comics while I was stood there, and one guy asked me to sign his. This would be a massive moment for most of you, but for me, with the tens of autographs I signed back in my wrestling days, it was just another day. I even got to say, "if you're at SuperCon come by my table", like a proper comicky person might. What a year it's going to be!
HeyJude! finished his comic last night, and you can check it out here for free before you (obviously) buy the print version, which also launches at SuperCon. It's very, very good, and puts my efforts to shame, which is as it should be.
Tomorrow is an Ikea day and a drawing day. I'm equally excited about both, although the prospect of drawing two men in the their pyjamas, sharing a double bed as if it were the rightest thing in the world, probably tips the balance towards drawing.
See, I told you - the world is good.
In tonight's Ripper Street one of the toms turned down good old Seargeant Drake, saying she could never be "a copper's housewife". I think that sounds lovely, apart from having sex with a copper, anyway. The show, once again, was cracking, and it's actually made me look stuff on Wikipedia. Edutainment at it's best.
. . . . .
I hung out at the comic shop a tiny bit today, squeezing in a visit in what's been a hectic week. The shop was busy, with lots of passing trade, which is another very good thing. They even sold three of my comics while I was stood there, and one guy asked me to sign his. This would be a massive moment for most of you, but for me, with the tens of autographs I signed back in my wrestling days, it was just another day. I even got to say, "if you're at SuperCon come by my table", like a proper comicky person might. What a year it's going to be!
HeyJude! finished his comic last night, and you can check it out here for free before you (obviously) buy the print version, which also launches at SuperCon. It's very, very good, and puts my efforts to shame, which is as it should be.
Tomorrow is an Ikea day and a drawing day. I'm equally excited about both, although the prospect of drawing two men in the their pyjamas, sharing a double bed as if it were the rightest thing in the world, probably tips the balance towards drawing.
See, I told you - the world is good.
. . . . .
In tonight's Ripper Street one of the toms turned down good old Seargeant Drake, saying she could never be "a copper's housewife". I think that sounds lovely, apart from having sex with a copper, anyway. The show, once again, was cracking, and it's actually made me look stuff on Wikipedia. Edutainment at it's best.
Saturday, January 26, 2013
26/01/13: THE HURT CONTINUES
I'm still torn up about losing my daughter's blankie. I went back to Sainsbury's this morning to have another look - still no dice. I asked at the customer service again and the girl said, "ah, yeah, you did a sketch. We've stuck it in the diary." What can have happened to him? Did someone pick him up and think, "a pre-loved child's blankie toy - perfect!"? Is he under some undusted shelf-unit, waiting to be rescued? It's killing me.
I bought one off eBay tonight, so that should be here in a week or so, when "Mr B comes back from his holiday", but it'll never be the same, will it? I'll always know that I failed her.
The ear thing is beginning to piss me off. It's not the pain so much, although it hurts a lot, it's the disconnection, and the not being able to hear properly. I like to go to sleep listening to the radio - I have one of those ace pillows with a speaker in it - but also like to lie with my right ear on the pillow, and it's the right ear that's fucked, so I can't hear Stephen Nolan and Dotun Adebayo talk rubbish and my brain has nothing to stop it performing evil, so I'm grumpy and tired and forlorn.
I'm not in a good place.
We're nearly a month through the year and I haven't really accomplished much. I've kept up with the blogging thing, and I'm working my way towards the comic thing, but everything else remains undone. I should probably sort that. Let's get the comic, and the ear, and the blankie sorted, yeah? Then it'll be playtime and progress.
I bought one off eBay tonight, so that should be here in a week or so, when "Mr B comes back from his holiday", but it'll never be the same, will it? I'll always know that I failed her.
. . . . .
The ear thing is beginning to piss me off. It's not the pain so much, although it hurts a lot, it's the disconnection, and the not being able to hear properly. I like to go to sleep listening to the radio - I have one of those ace pillows with a speaker in it - but also like to lie with my right ear on the pillow, and it's the right ear that's fucked, so I can't hear Stephen Nolan and Dotun Adebayo talk rubbish and my brain has nothing to stop it performing evil, so I'm grumpy and tired and forlorn.
I'm not in a good place.
. . . . .
We're nearly a month through the year and I haven't really accomplished much. I've kept up with the blogging thing, and I'm working my way towards the comic thing, but everything else remains undone. I should probably sort that. Let's get the comic, and the ear, and the blankie sorted, yeah? Then it'll be playtime and progress.
Friday, January 25, 2013
25/01/13: BLACK
A really, really bad thing happened today. My daughter lost her blankie. She's had him since birth and she'll be distraught when she realises. At the moment we're telling her he's gone on holiday but that won't hold for long. It's utterly upsetting for everyone.
When we went into Sainsbury's she had him. When we got home she didn't. None of us could remember the last time we'd seen him in the shop, and they haven't had one handed in. I walked and walked the aisles, tracing our exact route, and nothing. Like he vanished into thin air. I left a sketch and my number with the shop but there's not a lot else I can do.
Luckily there's one exactly the same on eBay, so I've put a bid in for that, and hopefully I'll have it by this time next week, ready for Mr B to return from his "holiday". This is the worst I've felt in years, so utterly useless. All over a little, pink blankie. God help me if anything real ever happens to me.
Villa humiliated. Again. This is going to go on for some time, because our once-heralded owner has done a vanishing act from the public eye, and seems content to leave the feckless cunt we've got as manager in post until the inevitable happens. I can only conclude one of three things: he's an idiot, he doesn't care, or he's got a bet/insurance policy on us going down. All three have the same result, a rudderless ship.
My pal Joe Costello has declared the Villa a "Factory Of Sadness". It's hard to disagree.
I'm still making steady progress on the proper comic, and I hope you're enjoying the webcomic. After work in the morning I've got a whole week off, so it'll all be done and sent off to the printers by Thursday, fingers crossed. And then it's on with the speedway book, and start work on fresh stuff for the webcomic. It never stops. Which is a good thing.
When we went into Sainsbury's she had him. When we got home she didn't. None of us could remember the last time we'd seen him in the shop, and they haven't had one handed in. I walked and walked the aisles, tracing our exact route, and nothing. Like he vanished into thin air. I left a sketch and my number with the shop but there's not a lot else I can do.
Luckily there's one exactly the same on eBay, so I've put a bid in for that, and hopefully I'll have it by this time next week, ready for Mr B to return from his "holiday". This is the worst I've felt in years, so utterly useless. All over a little, pink blankie. God help me if anything real ever happens to me.
. . . . .
Villa humiliated. Again. This is going to go on for some time, because our once-heralded owner has done a vanishing act from the public eye, and seems content to leave the feckless cunt we've got as manager in post until the inevitable happens. I can only conclude one of three things: he's an idiot, he doesn't care, or he's got a bet/insurance policy on us going down. All three have the same result, a rudderless ship.
My pal Joe Costello has declared the Villa a "Factory Of Sadness". It's hard to disagree.
. . . . .
I'm still making steady progress on the proper comic, and I hope you're enjoying the webcomic. After work in the morning I've got a whole week off, so it'll all be done and sent off to the printers by Thursday, fingers crossed. And then it's on with the speedway book, and start work on fresh stuff for the webcomic. It never stops. Which is a good thing.
Thursday, January 24, 2013
24/01/13: SLIGHTLY OUT OF FOCUS
My ear hurts. Pretty standard ear infection, as far as I can tell, but I'm letting nature take its course and avoiding bothering the sawbones for antibiotics. There's a story in the papers today about how they'll become ineffective because we overuse them, and I've had them twice in the past year (sinusitis and epididymo-orchitis, if you must know) so I don't want the bugs to win.
The downside is that, at times, the pain is pretty unbearable. I've always thought that toothache, sinus pain, and ear infections are the worst, because they're happening on your face, not in the extremities where it's easier to shake it off and forget about it. So, that.
The upside is that everything's a bit dreamy and unreal: my balance a tiny bit off and every sound that enters my right ear distorted and muffled. It's like being in a movie drug trip, but without the cool visuals and hippies asking if I'm okay, man. I like this part of it, although it doesn't make for good company. Ehh, what are you gonna do?
I got into a Twitter spat today, which immediately makes me one of the WORST PEOPLE EVER. I don't like to argue, but I do like people to see things as they are, ie my way, so arguments are sometimes inevitable. This was over whether someone's dad was a cunt. I said he was, his son said he wasn't. You can see the room for conflict there.
I didn't actually say he was a cunt, though - I said he was acting like a cunt. The two are fundamentally different. A man can be perfectly reasonable 99% of the time, but act like a bit of a cunt in that 1%. That doesn't make him a cunt, just a bit of one. The maths are quite simple.
Anyway, I offered to downgrade it to "twat" and that took the wind out of his sails. If there's any movement on that, I'll let you know.
I watched last night's Africa tonight, and it really is one of the greatest shows on our box at the moment. The sheer panoply of the continent's fauna laid bare is never short of breathtaking. This week we had man-sized fish who swim up river to turn in circles for NO APPARENT REASON, and springboks "pronking". I think that's where humans went wrong - they stopped pronking. We should start again. Pronk today, why don't you.
The tragedy of watching shows like Africa is that David Attenborough isn't immortal, and one day there won't be any more shows like this. Well, there will, but they just won't be the same. Enjoy them while they last. And pronk.
The downside is that, at times, the pain is pretty unbearable. I've always thought that toothache, sinus pain, and ear infections are the worst, because they're happening on your face, not in the extremities where it's easier to shake it off and forget about it. So, that.
The upside is that everything's a bit dreamy and unreal: my balance a tiny bit off and every sound that enters my right ear distorted and muffled. It's like being in a movie drug trip, but without the cool visuals and hippies asking if I'm okay, man. I like this part of it, although it doesn't make for good company. Ehh, what are you gonna do?
. . . . .
I got into a Twitter spat today, which immediately makes me one of the WORST PEOPLE EVER. I don't like to argue, but I do like people to see things as they are, ie my way, so arguments are sometimes inevitable. This was over whether someone's dad was a cunt. I said he was, his son said he wasn't. You can see the room for conflict there.
I didn't actually say he was a cunt, though - I said he was acting like a cunt. The two are fundamentally different. A man can be perfectly reasonable 99% of the time, but act like a bit of a cunt in that 1%. That doesn't make him a cunt, just a bit of one. The maths are quite simple.
Anyway, I offered to downgrade it to "twat" and that took the wind out of his sails. If there's any movement on that, I'll let you know.
. . . . .
I watched last night's Africa tonight, and it really is one of the greatest shows on our box at the moment. The sheer panoply of the continent's fauna laid bare is never short of breathtaking. This week we had man-sized fish who swim up river to turn in circles for NO APPARENT REASON, and springboks "pronking". I think that's where humans went wrong - they stopped pronking. We should start again. Pronk today, why don't you.
The tragedy of watching shows like Africa is that David Attenborough isn't immortal, and one day there won't be any more shows like this. Well, there will, but they just won't be the same. Enjoy them while they last. And pronk.
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
23/01/13: B'DUM BUH B'DUM
So last night was a low. My football team, not accustomed to soaring great heights in recent decades, brought lower than at any point in the last 25 years. Absolute shambles, absolutely embarrassing. There seem to be few recriminations for those who've mismanaged the club to such an extent, save a few dozen, a few hundred, a few thousand more fans who will no longer spend their hard-earned cash on supporting such an aimless mess. Ehhh, turn the lights out, yeah?
I had a massively productive day today, adding a stats widget to my webcomic, installing a new DVD drive in my PC, and inking and lettering 5 pages of my proper comic. I also listened to a ton of Tell 'Em Steve-Dave! and I Sell Comics! podcasts, and those guys are becoming the people I spend most time with these days. Friennnnnnnds... podcast friennnnnnnnnds.
I've still got a ways to go on my proper comic, but I've got next week off work and nothing much planned. I'm stealing time from working on the speedway book, but the deadline for the comic is a week & a bit away, as opposed to mid-March for the book, so that's okay, right? Neither, of course, is anything approaching actual work or proper creative endeavours, but it keeps my brain quiet doing it, and HeyJude! needs someone to sit next to at the next comic convention.
It's a difficult job, toiling away at something that won't see the light of day for a while, because you don't know if you're doing it right - even if you can get friends to take a look at it, they're not necessarily the right audience. I've had very little feedback on the webcomic beyond shares and likes on Facebook, but I hope people dig it at least a little. I had my horizons shattered by low sales at the last comic convention, so at the next one i'll be a little more realistically-stocked and hoping for a nice surprise.
Still, none of us do this for plaudits and blow jobs, right? Right?
The title of today's blog is the first five notes, played on the bass guitar, of the best song ever written and recorded by anyone ever. It was featured in a documentary on Glen Campbell on BBC4 last week that I missed, and one of the librarians at work was telling me about it, and that the bass guitarist was a lady. I never knew that. Usually - sexism alert - women aren't too good in the rhythm section but she knocked it right out of the park. Oh, it's Wichita Lineman, in case you don't know what the best song ever written and recorded ever is. I try to listen to us or sing it at least once a day. You should to.
. . . . .
I've still got a ways to go on my proper comic, but I've got next week off work and nothing much planned. I'm stealing time from working on the speedway book, but the deadline for the comic is a week & a bit away, as opposed to mid-March for the book, so that's okay, right? Neither, of course, is anything approaching actual work or proper creative endeavours, but it keeps my brain quiet doing it, and HeyJude! needs someone to sit next to at the next comic convention.
It's a difficult job, toiling away at something that won't see the light of day for a while, because you don't know if you're doing it right - even if you can get friends to take a look at it, they're not necessarily the right audience. I've had very little feedback on the webcomic beyond shares and likes on Facebook, but I hope people dig it at least a little. I had my horizons shattered by low sales at the last comic convention, so at the next one i'll be a little more realistically-stocked and hoping for a nice surprise.
Still, none of us do this for plaudits and blow jobs, right? Right?
. . . . .
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
Monday, January 21, 2013
21/01/13: BROKE-DICK DOG
"I'm tired as a broke-dick dog". I love that phrase. Both because it's such a wonderful collection of words, begging to be spoken in a southern drawl, and because it's pretty much how I feel right now. I've been pushing pretty hard, with still some way to go, and it's taking its toll a little bit. Today's been especially hard, and my fizz is going a little flat. It's okay, I'll Kenwood Mixer up some more tomorrow.
It's not entirely physcial tiredness, or even mental tiredness, that's getting to me - it's emotional tiredness. I'm trying to be all Pollyana about the job thing for the sake of my friends at work and it can be wearing. But, in the absence of a magic wand, it's the best I can do, keeping spirits high until we're all a little more sure of what's going on.
It's not a thankless task - I get plenty of smiles and my boss is grateful that I've taken it on - but it is wearing. Soon be over, eh?
Ripper Street was great again last night, and the story was centered around one of my favourite bits of mind-blowing history - the building of the London Underground. I've read plenty of books on how they did it, and it still amazes me. To build all that, under a city of millions of people going about their daily business, over a hundred years ago, is incredible.
I could become a bit of a nerd about the Underground, if I lived in London, I think. I'd be up the Transport Museum all the time, and investigating dead stations, and making line drawings of the old HQ building at 55 Broadway, and just losing myself in it. As it is, I just read irreverant books about the history of the thing, and marvel at Harry Beck's tube map, the best piece of design ever, and that includes Superman's symbol.
Still, you might find me, when the weather gets warmer, making the odd trip down to indulge my passion, finding the holes in the earth where the old steam tubes let out their foul emissions, and furtively photographing art-deco stations. Who's with me?
. . . . .
My new shoes, that I wrote about last week, are far too warm to wear at work, if great to wear to work. Do you think they'd mind if I wore carpet slippers whilst serving the public?
It's not entirely physcial tiredness, or even mental tiredness, that's getting to me - it's emotional tiredness. I'm trying to be all Pollyana about the job thing for the sake of my friends at work and it can be wearing. But, in the absence of a magic wand, it's the best I can do, keeping spirits high until we're all a little more sure of what's going on.
It's not a thankless task - I get plenty of smiles and my boss is grateful that I've taken it on - but it is wearing. Soon be over, eh?
. . . . .
Ripper Street was great again last night, and the story was centered around one of my favourite bits of mind-blowing history - the building of the London Underground. I've read plenty of books on how they did it, and it still amazes me. To build all that, under a city of millions of people going about their daily business, over a hundred years ago, is incredible.
I could become a bit of a nerd about the Underground, if I lived in London, I think. I'd be up the Transport Museum all the time, and investigating dead stations, and making line drawings of the old HQ building at 55 Broadway, and just losing myself in it. As it is, I just read irreverant books about the history of the thing, and marvel at Harry Beck's tube map, the best piece of design ever, and that includes Superman's symbol.
Still, you might find me, when the weather gets warmer, making the odd trip down to indulge my passion, finding the holes in the earth where the old steam tubes let out their foul emissions, and furtively photographing art-deco stations. Who's with me?
. . . . .
My new shoes, that I wrote about last week, are far too warm to wear at work, if great to wear to work. Do you think they'd mind if I wore carpet slippers whilst serving the public?
Sunday, January 20, 2013
20/01/13: SHUT DOWN
I have to work one Sunday out of every four. It's a small hassle, but better than doing every Sunday, right? I mostly do my Sundays at St James Library, the tiniest of tiny libraries and in an area that doesn't care too much for libraries. As a result, I usually get between half a dozen and two dozen people in, including the weird Asian guy that just pops in to say hello and ask how Dawn is.
Today was one of my work days, and you might have noticed it snowed a bit. If I didn't fill my time constructively while I was there, opening St James on a Sunday would be a waste of time most weeks, let alone on a day like today when even the most hardy soul thought twice about venturing out. But, I thought, I'm getting paid, and the buses are still running, so why not go in?
The first thing I did when I got in was send an e-mail round telling the world I was there. The last few days, and most Sundays, there are e-mails from across the county (usually not Northampton, I must say, we're good) announcing that libraries aren't opening for one reason or another. I thought I'd buck the trend. Within minutes all the libraries that managed to open had done the same. It was nice, a bit of positivity on a bleak Sunday, and maybe a nice little reminder to management at a difficult time that we're pretty dedicated to what we do, despite what gets thrown at us.
One of the blinds wouldn't open, so I made a sign that said, "I ASSURE YOU WE'RE OPEN" and stuck it up on the window in the hope that someone would walk past and think, "hahaha!" If anyone did, they didn't come in and congratulate me. But I laughed, anyway.
That done, I sat back and waited for my first customer. After 96 minutes, two came at once, although one was Tim, who I work with at Weston Favell, and on his third library of the day. If you know Tim that will need no explanation. If you don't, I can't begin to explain it. Tim was joined, quite coincidentally I hope, by a man of uncertain eastern European origins, who stank of sweat and had bled through his shirt sleeve at some point in time. I thought it best not to ask. He sat at the computer and poked away for a while. Again, I thought discretion would be the better part of valour.
Within then minutes another customer had joined the fray, asking about two books he'd requested. They weren't in. So he left. Then Tim left and it was just me and the stinky guy. With the weather closing in, and the buses running hourly at best, I decided to close twenty minutes early and so had to ask him to leave. There's no story here - he did. In fact, there really was no story to the day. I drew the cover to my comic, helped Tim with his job application, and then shivered waiting for the bus in a shelter that really wasn't.
Another Sunday at St James.
I watched the first episode of the last season of Fringe tonight. It's one of those shows where you're really grateful for a "previously on..." bit at the start, which is something that all shows should really have and most of the decent ones do, and while we're at it all comic books should have, too - you listening DC Comics?
Anyway, Fringe. This last season has jumped 20-odd years into the future, depending on when you are now. Fringe has always been a difficult watch - I remember when it got switched to the Friday night graveyard slot, the producers were asked if they were going to dumb it down and answered, "no, we're just not going to make it even more complicated, like we were planning" - but the jump might just be a bit too ambitious. Still, it didn't hurt Happy Days, and some say that final season, when Fonzie is in the nursing home, was the best work they did.
My pal (Not That) Ian Brown moaned that the lack of budget meant that the future mostly consisted of grey rooms in grey buildings, but I'm all about the narrative (he likes those BluRay things) and don't really care. The future could be cardboard boxes for all I care, as long as Walter & Olivia & Peter do their thing. I hope they do.
. . . . .
My webcomic goes into week 2 tomorrow, and I think it starts to hit its stride there. The first week was all about me learning how to draw again, and setting up the characters, and the jokes get a bit freer and a bit weirder from here on in. I'd still very much appreciate it if you could share it with all and sundry, far and wide, because - hey! - it's free and it's fun. Plus, when I get Modern Wolfman & Other Stories printed up and ready for sale I might actually have people wanting it. As a thankyou (and not much of one, I admit) here's a sneak preview of the uncoloured cover:
Today was one of my work days, and you might have noticed it snowed a bit. If I didn't fill my time constructively while I was there, opening St James on a Sunday would be a waste of time most weeks, let alone on a day like today when even the most hardy soul thought twice about venturing out. But, I thought, I'm getting paid, and the buses are still running, so why not go in?
The first thing I did when I got in was send an e-mail round telling the world I was there. The last few days, and most Sundays, there are e-mails from across the county (usually not Northampton, I must say, we're good) announcing that libraries aren't opening for one reason or another. I thought I'd buck the trend. Within minutes all the libraries that managed to open had done the same. It was nice, a bit of positivity on a bleak Sunday, and maybe a nice little reminder to management at a difficult time that we're pretty dedicated to what we do, despite what gets thrown at us.
One of the blinds wouldn't open, so I made a sign that said, "I ASSURE YOU WE'RE OPEN" and stuck it up on the window in the hope that someone would walk past and think, "hahaha!" If anyone did, they didn't come in and congratulate me. But I laughed, anyway.
That done, I sat back and waited for my first customer. After 96 minutes, two came at once, although one was Tim, who I work with at Weston Favell, and on his third library of the day. If you know Tim that will need no explanation. If you don't, I can't begin to explain it. Tim was joined, quite coincidentally I hope, by a man of uncertain eastern European origins, who stank of sweat and had bled through his shirt sleeve at some point in time. I thought it best not to ask. He sat at the computer and poked away for a while. Again, I thought discretion would be the better part of valour.
Within then minutes another customer had joined the fray, asking about two books he'd requested. They weren't in. So he left. Then Tim left and it was just me and the stinky guy. With the weather closing in, and the buses running hourly at best, I decided to close twenty minutes early and so had to ask him to leave. There's no story here - he did. In fact, there really was no story to the day. I drew the cover to my comic, helped Tim with his job application, and then shivered waiting for the bus in a shelter that really wasn't.
Another Sunday at St James.
. . . . .
Anyway, Fringe. This last season has jumped 20-odd years into the future, depending on when you are now. Fringe has always been a difficult watch - I remember when it got switched to the Friday night graveyard slot, the producers were asked if they were going to dumb it down and answered, "no, we're just not going to make it even more complicated, like we were planning" - but the jump might just be a bit too ambitious. Still, it didn't hurt Happy Days, and some say that final season, when Fonzie is in the nursing home, was the best work they did.
My pal (Not That) Ian Brown moaned that the lack of budget meant that the future mostly consisted of grey rooms in grey buildings, but I'm all about the narrative (he likes those BluRay things) and don't really care. The future could be cardboard boxes for all I care, as long as Walter & Olivia & Peter do their thing. I hope they do.
. . . . .
My webcomic goes into week 2 tomorrow, and I think it starts to hit its stride there. The first week was all about me learning how to draw again, and setting up the characters, and the jokes get a bit freer and a bit weirder from here on in. I'd still very much appreciate it if you could share it with all and sundry, far and wide, because - hey! - it's free and it's fun. Plus, when I get Modern Wolfman & Other Stories printed up and ready for sale I might actually have people wanting it. As a thankyou (and not much of one, I admit) here's a sneak preview of the uncoloured cover:
Saturday, January 19, 2013
19/01/13: NEW SHOES
I bought some new shoes yesterday. They're probably the most plastic thing I own, and I own a lot of plastic things. They're faux leather, of course, but so obviously never been anywhere near a cow. Which is the coolest. The best thing? They're fur lined. And when I say "fur", I mean "acrylic".
They're so warm! Walking around in them is like having a party on the end of your legs, one where even the coolest people start to feel toasty. No chilling out at this party, oh no siree! My feets are so warm when I wear them that my shins feel colder by comparison, but fuck my shins!
The upshot of this is, because they're shoes, they don't go with sweatpants, so I might have to actually start wearing proper trousers again, like a normal person. At the moment, when the weather is cold, I can live with that. When it warms up and my shoes become a burden? We'll renegotiate.
. . . . .
I was supposed to go for a beer tonight, with the Mighty Ed Stone, but it all became a bit much, logistics-wise, so I cried off. Christ knows I don't get out enough, but living out in the suburbs can be just that little extra obstacle to fun that tips the balance towards staying in. It might help if I had a local, but what passes for my local is a 15-minute walk away. And a bit shit.
Who builds a new housing estate without a pub on it? And let's make no mistake - where I live, despite people calling it a village, is a housing estate. Same goes for the one over the road. People can be funny, can't they? Anyway, I digress. No pub. No shop. Useless.
Time was any new estate would be built around a pub and some shops, because what's the point of dumping people in a suburb without entertainment and supplies? But times change. People have cars now, the pub isn't seen as such a social thing, and these suburbs aren't really used for the dumping of people in the way they were in the 1950s, '60s, and '70s.
But, still, I want a local.
. . . . .
I slept for a long time last night, and went back to bed for a little bit this morning. But I'm still massively tired. Another early night tonight, then. I'm not sure what's up. Probably fighting a little something, and maybe hiding away from the winter, and maybe also a little from the stresses and strains of these past two weeks. Either way, it'll pass. Tomorrow's a great big, busy day. Lots and lots to do. And then sleeps, yes?
They're so warm! Walking around in them is like having a party on the end of your legs, one where even the coolest people start to feel toasty. No chilling out at this party, oh no siree! My feets are so warm when I wear them that my shins feel colder by comparison, but fuck my shins!
The upshot of this is, because they're shoes, they don't go with sweatpants, so I might have to actually start wearing proper trousers again, like a normal person. At the moment, when the weather is cold, I can live with that. When it warms up and my shoes become a burden? We'll renegotiate.
. . . . .
I was supposed to go for a beer tonight, with the Mighty Ed Stone, but it all became a bit much, logistics-wise, so I cried off. Christ knows I don't get out enough, but living out in the suburbs can be just that little extra obstacle to fun that tips the balance towards staying in. It might help if I had a local, but what passes for my local is a 15-minute walk away. And a bit shit.
Who builds a new housing estate without a pub on it? And let's make no mistake - where I live, despite people calling it a village, is a housing estate. Same goes for the one over the road. People can be funny, can't they? Anyway, I digress. No pub. No shop. Useless.
Time was any new estate would be built around a pub and some shops, because what's the point of dumping people in a suburb without entertainment and supplies? But times change. People have cars now, the pub isn't seen as such a social thing, and these suburbs aren't really used for the dumping of people in the way they were in the 1950s, '60s, and '70s.
But, still, I want a local.
. . . . .
I slept for a long time last night, and went back to bed for a little bit this morning. But I'm still massively tired. Another early night tonight, then. I'm not sure what's up. Probably fighting a little something, and maybe hiding away from the winter, and maybe also a little from the stresses and strains of these past two weeks. Either way, it'll pass. Tomorrow's a great big, busy day. Lots and lots to do. And then sleeps, yes?
Friday, January 18, 2013
18/01/13: Oof!
I got into my car today, after clearing the snow off it, and my back started hurting. It was, like, a kidney/back pain, but a little too high for the kidneys? Hurts like fuck, though. Almost the breathtaking pain, you know?
So the upshot of this is it's 7 o'clock and I'm going to bed. Hopefully I'll wake up pain free. Normal service resumes tomorrow.
So the upshot of this is it's 7 o'clock and I'm going to bed. Hopefully I'll wake up pain free. Normal service resumes tomorrow.
Thursday, January 17, 2013
17/01/13: "CUDDLES"
Do you name your car? I've never really done it. I had one which had a number plate ending in UGO so I think I called it "Ugo" once or twice, but it's a girl thing, right? Anyway, I picked up my little girl from nursery today and when she saw the car she said, "our lovely car!" so I idly asked her what its name was. She said, "Cuddles." I know she's only three, but what a stupid name for a car! Everyone knows that's what you call a monkey! Still, stuck with it now, eh?
I started work on the speedway book this morning. All I got done was half of a long list of all the places that have ever staged speedway. There's a lot. Most of them did one or two meetings in, like, 1928, and nothing since, but at some point I'll probably need to mention them, at least in passing, and so on the list they go. It's a trial.
Once I've got that bit sorted I can get into the meat and bones of it. Do I pick the bits I want to write first, so that I build up a body of work to spur me on to finish the rest? Or do I go at it methodically, following the structure I worked out last week? I'm not sure. Both have their attractions so maybe I'll do a little bit of both.
I'm counting on this book to finance my speedway for the year, which means I'm going to have to sell between 100-150 ebooks. Is that even possible? I mean, it obviously is, but is it realistic? At £2.99/£3.99 a pop for over 100 (maybe even nearer 200) pages, it should be, right? I guess I'm going to have to pimp the shit out of it, and try and get the Speedway Star and track programmes to review it and stuff like that.
Effort, yeah? But that's what this year is all about - going all out on stuff, distracting myself from the things missing from my ideal TV life. It's a good thing.
So the Algerian hostage crisis ended with the death or capture of all of the terrorists. Unfortunately, it also ended with the deaths of a lot of the hostages, because the Algerian forces fired missiles at the oil refinery and then stormed the place.
It's the same tactic used by Putin when the Chechnyan rebels took hostages in that Moscow theatre a few years back. The idea is to strike fear into terrorists so they won't do it again. This works on rational people but Islamic fundamentalists don't seem to be the most rational people out there so it's not really that much of a deterrent.
Still, it makes for good headlines, and strong government, especially in places where journalists are imprisoned or killed for suggesting anything other than the party line. These are countries where human rights are not high on the agenda, and still people go there to do business. You kind of get what you deserve if you do that. Money's nice, but danger money is called danger money for a reason. Stay at home, cuddle your kids, let them call your car a stupid name, and the world will be a tiny bit better off.
. . . . .
Once I've got that bit sorted I can get into the meat and bones of it. Do I pick the bits I want to write first, so that I build up a body of work to spur me on to finish the rest? Or do I go at it methodically, following the structure I worked out last week? I'm not sure. Both have their attractions so maybe I'll do a little bit of both.
I'm counting on this book to finance my speedway for the year, which means I'm going to have to sell between 100-150 ebooks. Is that even possible? I mean, it obviously is, but is it realistic? At £2.99/£3.99 a pop for over 100 (maybe even nearer 200) pages, it should be, right? I guess I'm going to have to pimp the shit out of it, and try and get the Speedway Star and track programmes to review it and stuff like that.
Effort, yeah? But that's what this year is all about - going all out on stuff, distracting myself from the things missing from my ideal TV life. It's a good thing.
. . . . .
It's the same tactic used by Putin when the Chechnyan rebels took hostages in that Moscow theatre a few years back. The idea is to strike fear into terrorists so they won't do it again. This works on rational people but Islamic fundamentalists don't seem to be the most rational people out there so it's not really that much of a deterrent.
Still, it makes for good headlines, and strong government, especially in places where journalists are imprisoned or killed for suggesting anything other than the party line. These are countries where human rights are not high on the agenda, and still people go there to do business. You kind of get what you deserve if you do that. Money's nice, but danger money is called danger money for a reason. Stay at home, cuddle your kids, let them call your car a stupid name, and the world will be a tiny bit better off.
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
16/01/13: LOOK UP! LOOK OUT!
I'm quite unlucky, I think. Bad things happen to me that I just don't deserve, and I never win anything. Even my sports' teams lose more than they statistically should. I'm a fucking Jonas.
However unlucky I may feel, though, nothing compares to that bloke just walking along in Wandsworth this morning when a helicopter fell from the sky onto his head. That's bad luck.
It happened in E.R. once. Actually it happened twice, but the first time was why I stopped watching. Doctor Romano - played by Paul("I betcha think you're pretty smart, huh? Think you can outsmart a bullet?" McCrane - had already lost his arm at the shoulder to a helicopter crashing on the roof of the hospital (hey lay there, staring at his bloody stump, puking over himself), and was later killed when another helicopter fell onto him when he was outside the hospital. But Dr Romano was a fictional character (unlike Dr Doug, who will live forever in our hearts), not some actual bloke in the actual street.
Every helicopter boffin interviewed on the radio agreed that the pilot should never have been flying in this weather, but he was on his way to Elstree, no doubt to pick up somebody too important or pompous to travel like normal people. Can't let the famous down, eh?
Certain things are freak accidents, and the result of what happens when everyday life goes wrong. No-one needs to fly in a helicopter unless it's an air ambulance or you're Stringfellow Hawk, so these deaths are just a result of human fucking stupidity. What a waste.
I finished my job application today. It was a tough thing for me to do, because you have to describe - in minute detail - what you do, and what you've done, and what you've achieved, and basically sell yourself to someone. Anyone who knows me well enough will know I don't really do that, beyond a jokey bluster that I am, in fact, the greatest human being that ever lived. I find it tough to big myself up to the man because I've a history of thinking I'm pretty worthless. I've enough self-awareness now to realise that I'm alright, but it's still a hard slog.
But I did it.
The deadline's next Wednesday, so I'll wait a few days before sending it in, and see if I can't help some of the girls at work with theirs, if they want me to. We're in this together, because anything else means they win, right? The next step is an IT test on Monday and then, hopefully, interviews in the middle of February, to start after Easter. Give it five weeks and I'll know if I've still got my job, basically. What a fucking rollercoaster ride. Yawn.
The temperature didn't go above zero today. That's pretty hardcore. I don't actually mind the cold, I just mind that it gets in the way of things. Like having to scrape the car, inside and out, and getting held up because people who have difficulty driving at the best of times are like Bambi on ice on, erm, icy roads. I can't do anything about the car, but if you're not a confident driver, please get the bus and stay off the fucking roads, okay? It's a privilege, not a right.
However unlucky I may feel, though, nothing compares to that bloke just walking along in Wandsworth this morning when a helicopter fell from the sky onto his head. That's bad luck.
It happened in E.R. once. Actually it happened twice, but the first time was why I stopped watching. Doctor Romano - played by Paul("I betcha think you're pretty smart, huh? Think you can outsmart a bullet?" McCrane - had already lost his arm at the shoulder to a helicopter crashing on the roof of the hospital (hey lay there, staring at his bloody stump, puking over himself), and was later killed when another helicopter fell onto him when he was outside the hospital. But Dr Romano was a fictional character (unlike Dr Doug, who will live forever in our hearts), not some actual bloke in the actual street.
Every helicopter boffin interviewed on the radio agreed that the pilot should never have been flying in this weather, but he was on his way to Elstree, no doubt to pick up somebody too important or pompous to travel like normal people. Can't let the famous down, eh?
Certain things are freak accidents, and the result of what happens when everyday life goes wrong. No-one needs to fly in a helicopter unless it's an air ambulance or you're Stringfellow Hawk, so these deaths are just a result of human fucking stupidity. What a waste.
. . . . .
I finished my job application today. It was a tough thing for me to do, because you have to describe - in minute detail - what you do, and what you've done, and what you've achieved, and basically sell yourself to someone. Anyone who knows me well enough will know I don't really do that, beyond a jokey bluster that I am, in fact, the greatest human being that ever lived. I find it tough to big myself up to the man because I've a history of thinking I'm pretty worthless. I've enough self-awareness now to realise that I'm alright, but it's still a hard slog.
But I did it.
The deadline's next Wednesday, so I'll wait a few days before sending it in, and see if I can't help some of the girls at work with theirs, if they want me to. We're in this together, because anything else means they win, right? The next step is an IT test on Monday and then, hopefully, interviews in the middle of February, to start after Easter. Give it five weeks and I'll know if I've still got my job, basically. What a fucking rollercoaster ride. Yawn.
. . . . .
The temperature didn't go above zero today. That's pretty hardcore. I don't actually mind the cold, I just mind that it gets in the way of things. Like having to scrape the car, inside and out, and getting held up because people who have difficulty driving at the best of times are like Bambi on ice on, erm, icy roads. I can't do anything about the car, but if you're not a confident driver, please get the bus and stay off the fucking roads, okay? It's a privilege, not a right.
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
15/01/13: WHAT THE BLINKING FUCK?!?
Football referees are not often lauded for being the voice of the common fan. Indeed, it might look as though many referees forget that they ever liked the game of football in the first place (surely what must have made them want to do the job?) and do their best to ruin it with petty, illogical decisions that rob the paying fan of a fair contest.
So when one of their number, officiating as an assistant referee (what we used to call a linesman in old money) is caught saying something that hits home with every single fan who sees it, reads about it, or even hears about sixth hand, it's a refreshing change. So what do his bosses do? Laud him? Congratulate him? Give him a bonus? How about suspend him???
John Brooks was an assistant referee for Sunday's match at the Emirates Stadium between Arsenal and Manchester City. The match had been overshadowed by a ticket-pricing row which saw City return a third of their away allocation - at £62 a ticket - unsold. If there was one thing fans of every club in the Premier League agreed on - even Arsenal fans - it's that a ticket price of £62 was a step too far. Manchester City won the game 2-1, and when their players approached the officials for the customary post-match handshake, television cameras caught brooks telling them, "they've paid £62 over there, go and see them."
A clip of the exchange went viral, and Brooks received his reward - being stood down from his next two appointments. The referees' association, PGMOL, claim that Brooks has been withdrawn for the games to prevent undue media attention, but this is hardly a man under pressure. He could miss a blatant penalty and run the length of the touchline with his flag up his arse, and people would still congratulate him for that comment.
The Premier League like to pretend that everything's rosy in their garden, and I'm sure that Brooks's actions on Sunday sent a shiver down the fat spines of many chairmen. Would it be beyond them to enforce some kind of punishment? You'd hope so, but then what kind of person charges so much to see a game of football in the first place?
It's been another exhausting day, with more application form filling and more comic drawing. I'm stressing more about the comic than the job application, probably as a way of not actually stressing about the job application. If everything is equal, I should have little trouble getting the job - there's a lot of positions on offer and I've been doing it for 10 years - but it's not always a perfect world, and there is a chance that my confidence may be misplaced. If that's the case, then so be it. I don't know any other way to be and keep my sanity.
I got a small boost yesterday when I realised that the comic convention I'm drawing my new comic for is actually a week later than I thought. I'm still going to try and get it done by the deadline I originally set, and the pencilling is going alright. I'm drawing things I want to draw, and making stupid jokes that at least I find funny, so that's all that matters there.
Keeping busy is a good way to keep my stupid brain from thinking and doing stupid things. It's my best friend and my worst enemy. So the fact that I've got a billion things on is good, yeah? But roll on the end of February, when I can actually relax (a little bit). I might even stop feeling tired.
You know what's good? Music. Music is good. And lately I've started to listen to a bit more of it, usually because I'm drawing or something (although I do like a good podcast, too). I've also gone back to digitising the thousands and thousands of CDs I've got (not all acquired legitimately, I admit). It's a massive job - I'm only up to Bright Eyes. The upside of this (for you 'orrible lot, anyway) is that I'm giving away all the CDs once I've ripped them. So if anyone wants hundreds of CDs by bands beginning with A & B, give me a shout, yeah?
So when one of their number, officiating as an assistant referee (what we used to call a linesman in old money) is caught saying something that hits home with every single fan who sees it, reads about it, or even hears about sixth hand, it's a refreshing change. So what do his bosses do? Laud him? Congratulate him? Give him a bonus? How about suspend him???
John Brooks was an assistant referee for Sunday's match at the Emirates Stadium between Arsenal and Manchester City. The match had been overshadowed by a ticket-pricing row which saw City return a third of their away allocation - at £62 a ticket - unsold. If there was one thing fans of every club in the Premier League agreed on - even Arsenal fans - it's that a ticket price of £62 was a step too far. Manchester City won the game 2-1, and when their players approached the officials for the customary post-match handshake, television cameras caught brooks telling them, "they've paid £62 over there, go and see them."
A clip of the exchange went viral, and Brooks received his reward - being stood down from his next two appointments. The referees' association, PGMOL, claim that Brooks has been withdrawn for the games to prevent undue media attention, but this is hardly a man under pressure. He could miss a blatant penalty and run the length of the touchline with his flag up his arse, and people would still congratulate him for that comment.
The Premier League like to pretend that everything's rosy in their garden, and I'm sure that Brooks's actions on Sunday sent a shiver down the fat spines of many chairmen. Would it be beyond them to enforce some kind of punishment? You'd hope so, but then what kind of person charges so much to see a game of football in the first place?
. . . . .
It's been another exhausting day, with more application form filling and more comic drawing. I'm stressing more about the comic than the job application, probably as a way of not actually stressing about the job application. If everything is equal, I should have little trouble getting the job - there's a lot of positions on offer and I've been doing it for 10 years - but it's not always a perfect world, and there is a chance that my confidence may be misplaced. If that's the case, then so be it. I don't know any other way to be and keep my sanity.
I got a small boost yesterday when I realised that the comic convention I'm drawing my new comic for is actually a week later than I thought. I'm still going to try and get it done by the deadline I originally set, and the pencilling is going alright. I'm drawing things I want to draw, and making stupid jokes that at least I find funny, so that's all that matters there.
Keeping busy is a good way to keep my stupid brain from thinking and doing stupid things. It's my best friend and my worst enemy. So the fact that I've got a billion things on is good, yeah? But roll on the end of February, when I can actually relax (a little bit). I might even stop feeling tired.
. . . . .
You know what's good? Music. Music is good. And lately I've started to listen to a bit more of it, usually because I'm drawing or something (although I do like a good podcast, too). I've also gone back to digitising the thousands and thousands of CDs I've got (not all acquired legitimately, I admit). It's a massive job - I'm only up to Bright Eyes. The upside of this (for you 'orrible lot, anyway) is that I'm giving away all the CDs once I've ripped them. So if anyone wants hundreds of CDs by bands beginning with A & B, give me a shout, yeah?
Monday, January 14, 2013
14/01/13: PUSHING
I launched the webcomic today - you can read it here if you're that way inclined - and felt good about it, despite the early episodes being more set-up than jokes, and my drawing showing the rustiness that I hope I've shaken off by now. I had a few little bits of feedback, which is nice because there's really not much to feed back on yet - but hit a problem almost straight away when I couldn't view it properly at work, the comic strip being all squashed up and unreadable. After asking a few people to check if they could access it, I pretty much narrowed it down to older versions of Internet Explorer. We're always getting warnings from websites about being outdated at work, so that explains that. If you can't access it properly, I'll try and sort it but it's probably better for everyone - especially you - if you start using Chrome or Firefox or one of those 21st century browsers. And if there's anyone out there having trouble accessing it on Netscape (perhaps you found a link to it on Altavista, or got sent a heads up in your Compuserve mail) then I salute you.
In my lunch hour I started drawing version 2.0 of the actual comic, and hot that wall of disgust that I'm only too familiar wit lately. I've talked to HeyJude about this, and he's convinced that none of us like our own work, but me, I'm extra spiteful about it. We'll see. It still works, I just need to play around with page desig, I think, and then just get on with it. The clock is ticking.
I also looked at formatting for the Kindle, for when I finish that speedway book I'm going to write. Nothing like getting ahead of yourself. Turns out there really is no formatting for the Kindle, because it has to be flexibly done so readers can enlarge the text, etc. So you just write what you want to write in paragraphs in Word, convert it to HTML and upload it. No fancy boxes, and pictures can be tricky. Hmm. I may have to look at this down the line and just get on and write. That's what a sensible person would do, right?
It's all left me feeling a bit drained. A bit like I've pushed too far today. I was going to do some more drawing when I got home, but I've agreed to work late tomorrow night and will take an extra hour in the morning instead. Tonight I'll just watch The Soup and finish reading my book. Nice.
I watched the third episode of Ripper Street last night, and enjoyed it as much as the first two. There's something jarring about that time period - light years away in terms of everyday life for most, but still awfully familiar in many ways. Like the scientific process - realising that much of what physical science does today has been common practice for hundreds of years seems odd, but there are only so many answers to the same questions, I guess.
I like to think I'd be like Inspector Reed if I'd been around then, trying to cut through the bullshit and superstition with deduction and moxy, although he is a little starched (and his wife has a weird-shaped face). I'd probably me more like some of the people who end up on Captain Jackson's slab, though, unprepared for the changing times and falling victim to the nastiness and filth of Whitechapel. I'd certainly like to dress like Reed, though, even if that would get me a bit of a name as a hipster douchebag or steampunk twat. I can handle it.
Eh, it's a good show, watch it.
Two of my Swans flew the nest this week, one a veteran of many battles, the other a relative newcomer to the nest. I count both as solid brothers, and I wish them luck in the future endeavours, and I mean it. I built the Swans in the image of the Llamas: good men standing shoulder to shoulder, drinking together, playing together, fighting together, and just stopping short of sleeping together. Wattsy and Ed epitomised this spirit, and will continue to do so, wherever they play football or sling their guns. Good speed, fellas.
In my lunch hour I started drawing version 2.0 of the actual comic, and hot that wall of disgust that I'm only too familiar wit lately. I've talked to HeyJude about this, and he's convinced that none of us like our own work, but me, I'm extra spiteful about it. We'll see. It still works, I just need to play around with page desig, I think, and then just get on with it. The clock is ticking.
I also looked at formatting for the Kindle, for when I finish that speedway book I'm going to write. Nothing like getting ahead of yourself. Turns out there really is no formatting for the Kindle, because it has to be flexibly done so readers can enlarge the text, etc. So you just write what you want to write in paragraphs in Word, convert it to HTML and upload it. No fancy boxes, and pictures can be tricky. Hmm. I may have to look at this down the line and just get on and write. That's what a sensible person would do, right?
It's all left me feeling a bit drained. A bit like I've pushed too far today. I was going to do some more drawing when I got home, but I've agreed to work late tomorrow night and will take an extra hour in the morning instead. Tonight I'll just watch The Soup and finish reading my book. Nice.
. . . . .
I watched the third episode of Ripper Street last night, and enjoyed it as much as the first two. There's something jarring about that time period - light years away in terms of everyday life for most, but still awfully familiar in many ways. Like the scientific process - realising that much of what physical science does today has been common practice for hundreds of years seems odd, but there are only so many answers to the same questions, I guess.
I like to think I'd be like Inspector Reed if I'd been around then, trying to cut through the bullshit and superstition with deduction and moxy, although he is a little starched (and his wife has a weird-shaped face). I'd probably me more like some of the people who end up on Captain Jackson's slab, though, unprepared for the changing times and falling victim to the nastiness and filth of Whitechapel. I'd certainly like to dress like Reed, though, even if that would get me a bit of a name as a hipster douchebag or steampunk twat. I can handle it.
Eh, it's a good show, watch it.
. . . . .
Two of my Swans flew the nest this week, one a veteran of many battles, the other a relative newcomer to the nest. I count both as solid brothers, and I wish them luck in the future endeavours, and I mean it. I built the Swans in the image of the Llamas: good men standing shoulder to shoulder, drinking together, playing together, fighting together, and just stopping short of sleeping together. Wattsy and Ed epitomised this spirit, and will continue to do so, wherever they play football or sling their guns. Good speed, fellas.
Sunday, January 13, 2013
13/01/13: JULIE BURCHILL IS A HATEFUL CUNT
I read a horrible piece in the The Observer today, by Julie Burchill. I'm not going to link to it because she's a cunt and doesn't deserve the page hits. The reason for her piece was that her friend (who, of course, is lovely) insulted transsexuals in a throwaway line in a book of essays. Now what this friend wrote was clumsy, but probably not all that offensive, yet the transsexual community (because a clump of angry individuals can constitute a community, apparently) took her to task over it, eventually forcing her to quit Twitter.
This heinous series of events was all it took for Ms Burchill to go on the offensive, turning in the most extreme speech of hate speech published in a British newspaper since the last time Jan Moir decided she spoke for right-minded individuals. Burchill didn't single out those people who'd been so mean to her friend, she cast a sweeping generalisation over the whole transsexual gender, thinking out loud at stopping short of calling them shemales before going on to actually call them, yes, shemales.
If this were the Mail or the Express I wouldn't think twice about it. Writing for reactionary old fools, worried about the effect of immigrant cancer on house prices, shouldn't be taken too seriously. That way lies madness. But The Observer should know better. Freedom of speech should not cover hate speech, and there's no denying that this purported vengeful shot across the bows of a very diverse people, was hateful in extremis.
I expect the Reader's Editor to have something to say about this - that's how civilised things usually are down at Guardian Newspapers, but it really shouldn't have come to that. The editor, John Mulholland, a veteran Guardian man, should know better, and even the hits his website will have no doubt generated today is no excuse for publishing such a vile rant.
The world will continue to turn tomorrow, transsexuals will get on with their lives, and Julie Burchill will write again. One of those things is not a pleasant thought.
I'm sitting at my desk fielding texts on my 'phone, writing this blog in one window on my PC, while Facebook, Twitter, and the When Saturday Comes message board are open in others, and with my laptop on the floor next to me burning a DVD of mp3s because the disk drive in my PC has gone kaput. If I had a TV in the office it would be on, no doubt, perhaps with the sound down while I listen to a podcast. This is the modern world.
I'm quite aware I have a concentration problem. That's nothing new. But for the past few years I've developed a stimulation problem to go along with it, and I even need the radio on while I sleep, absorbing something in my unconscious mind, even if it is only 5Live's Up All Night (Rhod Sharp was the recipient of my first ever e-mail).
I'm not sure what the problem is. I tell myself it's to keep my brain quiet, and maybe there's some truth in that. It is a bit of a fucker, my brain. It hasn't caused too many issues yet, but there have been times when even I have realised it's a bit much. But what to do? Go cold turkey? God, the thought of that frightens me. Wean myself down? But what to give up?
I'm like the worst kind of junkie, except that I don't have to steal to pay for my habit, and there's no actual intravenous injection going on. Eh, I'll let it slide for now. It does have it's uses, all this nosing and learning and watching and listening - I'm an expert at quizzes and can probably tell you what you've been up to better than you can...
. . . . .
I feel like I've done lots this weekend, but also lots of nothing. That's the best kind of weekend ever.
This heinous series of events was all it took for Ms Burchill to go on the offensive, turning in the most extreme speech of hate speech published in a British newspaper since the last time Jan Moir decided she spoke for right-minded individuals. Burchill didn't single out those people who'd been so mean to her friend, she cast a sweeping generalisation over the whole transsexual gender, thinking out loud at stopping short of calling them shemales before going on to actually call them, yes, shemales.
If this were the Mail or the Express I wouldn't think twice about it. Writing for reactionary old fools, worried about the effect of immigrant cancer on house prices, shouldn't be taken too seriously. That way lies madness. But The Observer should know better. Freedom of speech should not cover hate speech, and there's no denying that this purported vengeful shot across the bows of a very diverse people, was hateful in extremis.
I expect the Reader's Editor to have something to say about this - that's how civilised things usually are down at Guardian Newspapers, but it really shouldn't have come to that. The editor, John Mulholland, a veteran Guardian man, should know better, and even the hits his website will have no doubt generated today is no excuse for publishing such a vile rant.
The world will continue to turn tomorrow, transsexuals will get on with their lives, and Julie Burchill will write again. One of those things is not a pleasant thought.
. . . . .
I'm quite aware I have a concentration problem. That's nothing new. But for the past few years I've developed a stimulation problem to go along with it, and I even need the radio on while I sleep, absorbing something in my unconscious mind, even if it is only 5Live's Up All Night (Rhod Sharp was the recipient of my first ever e-mail).
I'm not sure what the problem is. I tell myself it's to keep my brain quiet, and maybe there's some truth in that. It is a bit of a fucker, my brain. It hasn't caused too many issues yet, but there have been times when even I have realised it's a bit much. But what to do? Go cold turkey? God, the thought of that frightens me. Wean myself down? But what to give up?
I'm like the worst kind of junkie, except that I don't have to steal to pay for my habit, and there's no actual intravenous injection going on. Eh, I'll let it slide for now. It does have it's uses, all this nosing and learning and watching and listening - I'm an expert at quizzes and can probably tell you what you've been up to better than you can...
. . . . .
I feel like I've done lots this weekend, but also lots of nothing. That's the best kind of weekend ever.
Saturday, January 12, 2013
12/01/13: NOT HELPING
I worked at Kingsthorpe Library today, a medium-sized library in a busy suburb of Northampton. As always, I popped into Oliver Adams, a bakery, to grab a roll to get me through my shift. They do awesome cheese-topped rolls, but they didn't have any made up so I just plumped for a cheese salad on soft white. But I digress. Next door to Oliver Adams is a brand spanking new Greggs.
Now I understand the free market, and that Oliver Adams - a family-owned business started, built, and still based in the town - should have no special protection from competition, but come on! Right next door? Not helping! Greggs, as a national chain, can afford to "competitively price" its sandwiches and sausage rolls, effectively a license to undercut the competition next door.
This would be a bit off in the best of times, but now? When the hot pie pound is being stretched even thinner? Unacceptable! Who makes these decisions? Who honestly thought it would be the best thing for the people of Kingsthorpe to potentially drive out of business a locally-owned operation? You know, public service attracts some of the best people you could ask for, but increasingly that doesn't seem to stretch to decision-makers.
Fuck Greggs.
I spent my Saturday evening doing two things: filling in an application form for what is (basically) my own job, and tweaking the Wordpress site I'm using to host my webcomic. I'm not sure which did it - or some combination of the two - but I'm exhausted.
Time was I'd spend Saturday nights out on the town with friends, drinking and laughing, playing crap songs on the jukebox, and stumbling home full of the joys of spring/summer/autumn/winter. Not any more, it seems.
But you know what? I don't entirely miss it. Yes, I enjoy getting together with friends, and God knows that doesn't happen often enough, but the trawling round pubs, downing pints of lager/cider/cheeky vimto* (*delete where applicable) doesn't seem that much fun anymore.
I'd much rather sit down, or circulate a smallish room, meeting new friends and laughing with old ones. Have I finally grown up? I doubt it, but I guess I am finally maturing.
Scary, isn't it?
I've got a lot on lately, and not enough time to do it. There's the job application thing (and hopefully the job interview thing down the line), the comic, the book, a 'zine and a script to write, a house to be sorted and DIY'd... too much. I'm learning to prioritise, rather than adopt my usual scattergun approach, but it's difficult not to want to do the fun things first.
What I need is an assistant, or perhaps even a bullpen of assistants. I'd sit in my swivelchair, barking out commands, advising and clarifying to my loyal band of worker ants, and everything would get done in no time at all.
Unfortunately, though, I'm not Stan Lee in the 1960s and I don't have a Jack Kirby, a Steve Ditko, or even a Joe Sinnott. That's a crime in so many ways.
Now I understand the free market, and that Oliver Adams - a family-owned business started, built, and still based in the town - should have no special protection from competition, but come on! Right next door? Not helping! Greggs, as a national chain, can afford to "competitively price" its sandwiches and sausage rolls, effectively a license to undercut the competition next door.
This would be a bit off in the best of times, but now? When the hot pie pound is being stretched even thinner? Unacceptable! Who makes these decisions? Who honestly thought it would be the best thing for the people of Kingsthorpe to potentially drive out of business a locally-owned operation? You know, public service attracts some of the best people you could ask for, but increasingly that doesn't seem to stretch to decision-makers.
Fuck Greggs.
. . . . .
Time was I'd spend Saturday nights out on the town with friends, drinking and laughing, playing crap songs on the jukebox, and stumbling home full of the joys of spring/summer/autumn/winter. Not any more, it seems.
But you know what? I don't entirely miss it. Yes, I enjoy getting together with friends, and God knows that doesn't happen often enough, but the trawling round pubs, downing pints of lager/cider/cheeky vimto* (*delete where applicable) doesn't seem that much fun anymore.
I'd much rather sit down, or circulate a smallish room, meeting new friends and laughing with old ones. Have I finally grown up? I doubt it, but I guess I am finally maturing.
Scary, isn't it?
. . . . .
What I need is an assistant, or perhaps even a bullpen of assistants. I'd sit in my swivelchair, barking out commands, advising and clarifying to my loyal band of worker ants, and everything would get done in no time at all.
Unfortunately, though, I'm not Stan Lee in the 1960s and I don't have a Jack Kirby, a Steve Ditko, or even a Joe Sinnott. That's a crime in so many ways.
Friday, January 11, 2013
11/01/13: TIDY MIND
I half-tidied my office today. Well, I say "office", it's actually the room where I keep my books and the computer. It's no more an office than I'm a writer, but we both pretend as best we can. I only half-tidied it because it's a big job. Like most spare rooms, because that's what it really is, it gets all the junk piled up in it, but I at least cleared the area where I work, even if I still can't get to my wardrobe.
I didn't waste this morning like I did yesterday. That's a very good thing. I wrote the skeleton structure for the book, finished the script for the first half of the comic, and did that tidying thing. All while listening to Tell 'Em, Steve-Dave! and ripping CDs. It made me feel good, doing that little bit of production, and a whole lot of cleaning house. Like they say, "tidy desk, tidy mind". Tru' dat.
So here's a new one: a girl I (kind of) know actually likes Chris Brown. Not just his music, but she thinks he's hot. I know! I guess you can't tell people who they should crush on, but come on! There again, live and let live, eh? So I decided: if you wanna crush on Chris Brown, that's fine, but if you get punched through a car window by a guy then you just have to take it, yeah? Because that's what Chris would want...
The Modern Wolfman web-comic will be up from Monday, six episodes a week, with Hey, Daddy! running on Sundays. The design of the page is not quite how I want it at the moment, but it might well be by Monday, and even if it's not it's definitely something I can live with. So look for that, yeah? Reminders in all the usual places.
If all goes as it should do, the first run of the strip will take us up to February 25th, when all new material will appear twice-weekly. If you've already read some MW then expect more of the same, but with a sasquatch, hot monster sex, and maximum rock 'n' roll. Yeah, I know it might surprise you, but I do plan this stuff.
I didn't waste this morning like I did yesterday. That's a very good thing. I wrote the skeleton structure for the book, finished the script for the first half of the comic, and did that tidying thing. All while listening to Tell 'Em, Steve-Dave! and ripping CDs. It made me feel good, doing that little bit of production, and a whole lot of cleaning house. Like they say, "tidy desk, tidy mind". Tru' dat.
. . . . .
. . . . .
If all goes as it should do, the first run of the strip will take us up to February 25th, when all new material will appear twice-weekly. If you've already read some MW then expect more of the same, but with a sasquatch, hot monster sex, and maximum rock 'n' roll. Yeah, I know it might surprise you, but I do plan this stuff.
Thursday, January 10, 2013
10/01/13: RESOLUTIONS pt10
It's been a really bad day, sparked off by something so ridiculous that it's just embarrassing. But when you walk that thin line between confidence and self-criticism that can happen.
Today was supposed to be a day I got on and did some work on the comic, borrowing time from writing the book, but it just didn't work. The first strip I worked on just looked awful. The second wasn't funny. By the time I actually got started on the third, something weird was going on with my pen tablet, and the lines were all shaky. Hate hate hate.
I got sad, and let that sadness gnaw away at the rest of the day. But in the back of my mind was a tiny piece of my sanity trying to sort it out, and I think it has done, at least for now, with a rejigging of what I was doing and more focus on what I know and what I can draw and what I can write jokes about.
So, yeah, I'm going to borrow a bit more time tomorrow so I can get something down that I actually like, and sort out the problem with my pen, and that January 31st deadline still looks like no problem.
For now, anyway.
- - - - - - - - -
10. Meet Friends I've Never Met
This was an unspoken one from last year that I actually did a fair bit of - mostly speedway pals that I'd made over Twitter or Facebook and that - but I want to ramp it up this year and actually meet some long-term friends I've never met.
It seems strange to call people you've never met "friends", but that's modern life. Pen pals with more immediacy, and less being forced to write in French, and with the world shrinking (although travel getting more expensive) it seems silly not to turn virtual relationships into real ones.
I also want to reconnect with some old friends I've not seen in a while, which should mean a RIMup at some point, and maybe a trip to Ross-on-Wye. How I'm going to fit this all in I have no idea, let alone know how I'm going to run it past the missus, but it's an aim, right? Aim high - and you people are the highest.
- - - - - - - - -
I've been marking up my year-planner with the things I've already got set for 2013, and marking which days I'm working. It feels really odd to only be marking days up to the end of March, but I can't go further than that because I don't know if I'll still have a job after that. I should do but I'm taking nothing for granted. I'm not overly concerned about the future - that way lies madness - but it is a little buzzing worry at the back of my mind. Bear with me if it gets louder.
Today was supposed to be a day I got on and did some work on the comic, borrowing time from writing the book, but it just didn't work. The first strip I worked on just looked awful. The second wasn't funny. By the time I actually got started on the third, something weird was going on with my pen tablet, and the lines were all shaky. Hate hate hate.
I got sad, and let that sadness gnaw away at the rest of the day. But in the back of my mind was a tiny piece of my sanity trying to sort it out, and I think it has done, at least for now, with a rejigging of what I was doing and more focus on what I know and what I can draw and what I can write jokes about.
So, yeah, I'm going to borrow a bit more time tomorrow so I can get something down that I actually like, and sort out the problem with my pen, and that January 31st deadline still looks like no problem.
For now, anyway.
- - - - - - - - -
This was an unspoken one from last year that I actually did a fair bit of - mostly speedway pals that I'd made over Twitter or Facebook and that - but I want to ramp it up this year and actually meet some long-term friends I've never met.
It seems strange to call people you've never met "friends", but that's modern life. Pen pals with more immediacy, and less being forced to write in French, and with the world shrinking (although travel getting more expensive) it seems silly not to turn virtual relationships into real ones.
I also want to reconnect with some old friends I've not seen in a while, which should mean a RIMup at some point, and maybe a trip to Ross-on-Wye. How I'm going to fit this all in I have no idea, let alone know how I'm going to run it past the missus, but it's an aim, right? Aim high - and you people are the highest.
- - - - - - - - -
Wednesday, January 09, 2013
09/01/13: RESOLUTIONS pt9
I got so much to do right now, and so little time to do it. And the time I do get I'm such a massive procrastinator that I never do anything except watch Africa or some other worthy show that means nothing to what I have to do. Still, it'll all get done, it always does. I console myself with some upcoming windows, and the possibility of juggling around some time from project to project, so that stuff I can do when I'm supposed to be doing other stuff can be traded for stuff I really need to focus on. It makes sense to me, anyhow.
Part of the problem is that I've hit a wall of my own creating on the comic at the moment, disgusted by my drawing and the weakness of some of the jokes. I'll work it out but it's a problem, no denying. Eh, it's all filler, right? All stuff I do to avoid thinking about the rest of my life (in terms of the years ahead, not what I've built around me, you know)? Yeah, but it's gathered momentum and I'll paint myself out of this corner if it's the last thing I do.
9. Do Stand-Up Comedy
I'm funny. I know that. I make people laugh. I make up stuff that nobody has ever said before and it gets a chuckle. I can also talk in front of people. These are all the ingredients of a stand-up comic. Don't get me wrong - I'm under no illusions that it's my calling. But I want to see if I can put together a five minute set, and perform it at an open mic somewhere, and see what happens. Probably disaster, but this is how I approach my life: assume I'll be able to do it until I find out otherwise. I'll let you know when I'm on, yeah?
Oh, God, that poor little elephant. Nature's a bitch, man.
Oh, yeah, tomorrow will the final resolution for 2013. I don't even know what it is yet, I just thought 10 would be a nice round number.
Part of the problem is that I've hit a wall of my own creating on the comic at the moment, disgusted by my drawing and the weakness of some of the jokes. I'll work it out but it's a problem, no denying. Eh, it's all filler, right? All stuff I do to avoid thinking about the rest of my life (in terms of the years ahead, not what I've built around me, you know)? Yeah, but it's gathered momentum and I'll paint myself out of this corner if it's the last thing I do.
- - - - - - - - -
9. Do Stand-Up Comedy
I'm funny. I know that. I make people laugh. I make up stuff that nobody has ever said before and it gets a chuckle. I can also talk in front of people. These are all the ingredients of a stand-up comic. Don't get me wrong - I'm under no illusions that it's my calling. But I want to see if I can put together a five minute set, and perform it at an open mic somewhere, and see what happens. Probably disaster, but this is how I approach my life: assume I'll be able to do it until I find out otherwise. I'll let you know when I'm on, yeah?
- - - - - - - - -
Oh, God, that poor little elephant. Nature's a bitch, man.
- - - - - - - - -
Oh, yeah, tomorrow will the final resolution for 2013. I don't even know what it is yet, I just thought 10 would be a nice round number.
Tuesday, January 08, 2013
08/01/13: RESOLUTIONS pt8
I hate football. It's rubbish. Actually, it's just annoying. Because the Villa are rubbish. And I can't even bring myself to care that much about it. That's what two and a half years of mismanagement by someone we all felt lucky to have as our owner have brought me to. That season under Houllier, and the last one under that blue-nose twat, sucked all joy out of everything I felt for "my" club. It didn't feel like it was my club any more, because even as bad as things got (and Villa have spent enough time out of the top division in my lifetime, as well as fighting relegation and generally pissing about in mid-table) I never dreamed we'd be such an embarrassment. But we were, and we still are.
I'm sure Paul Lambert is an able manager. He did a good job with Norwich last year in the Premier League, but he's struggling at the Villa. This may not necessarily mean he's a bad manager, just that - for our particular circumstances - he's not the right man for the job. And to let his reputation cloud that, whilst ignoring the difficulties we're operating under, is folly, and a folly that may see us play Championship football next season.
Randy Lerner has decided to pull in the purse strings. He owns the club. That's his decision. He claims to be a true fan, and has the club badge (the horrible, redesigned one) tattooed on his calf. All very good. But a true fan couldn't see this happen to his club. It would hurt too much, which is probably why he rarely attends games these days. Don't get me wrong - it's not life or death (Shankly was wrong about that) - but it does affect the mood and fortunes of thousands of people.
What's to be done? Fuck knows. Pay a few thousand more a week for the right player? Get someone in to run the club who understands football, rather than the succession of feckless "sports executives", with their MBAs, that we've suffered recently? Or find a buyer. Just do something, eh?
8. Get A Regular (Paid) Writing Gig
Whoah, a biggie. Possibly the biggest, along with losing that weight (not going great, btw). But it's something that I really need to do.
I like to write. You may have noticed this. I think I have a small talent for it. I hope you noticed this, too, and if not I hate you. But turning that small talent into something I can make money off is tough. Everyone writes these days, and not enough people read. So you can see my problem.
I've been historically bad at this kind of thing. Whenever I've done any sort of freelance work it has soon dried up through a lack of confidence, perseverence, and effort on my behalf. Copywriting, wrestling, TV work - all dried up because I lost my mojo, or got bored, or lazy. Let's see if we can change that, yeah?
David Bowie released a new song today, just over the internet and not in shops or anything (not that that matters anymore, right?), and everybody seemed quite surprised and pleased with it. It's alright. Certainly not terrible. But it's terribly zeitgeisty, and really he should know better at his age. Why bother? Just spend all day sleeping, drinking, reading... whatever the fuck you like, man.
This may say more about me than David Bowie.
I'm sure Paul Lambert is an able manager. He did a good job with Norwich last year in the Premier League, but he's struggling at the Villa. This may not necessarily mean he's a bad manager, just that - for our particular circumstances - he's not the right man for the job. And to let his reputation cloud that, whilst ignoring the difficulties we're operating under, is folly, and a folly that may see us play Championship football next season.
Randy Lerner has decided to pull in the purse strings. He owns the club. That's his decision. He claims to be a true fan, and has the club badge (the horrible, redesigned one) tattooed on his calf. All very good. But a true fan couldn't see this happen to his club. It would hurt too much, which is probably why he rarely attends games these days. Don't get me wrong - it's not life or death (Shankly was wrong about that) - but it does affect the mood and fortunes of thousands of people.
What's to be done? Fuck knows. Pay a few thousand more a week for the right player? Get someone in to run the club who understands football, rather than the succession of feckless "sports executives", with their MBAs, that we've suffered recently? Or find a buyer. Just do something, eh?
- - - - - - - - -
8. Get A Regular (Paid) Writing Gig
Whoah, a biggie. Possibly the biggest, along with losing that weight (not going great, btw). But it's something that I really need to do.
I like to write. You may have noticed this. I think I have a small talent for it. I hope you noticed this, too, and if not I hate you. But turning that small talent into something I can make money off is tough. Everyone writes these days, and not enough people read. So you can see my problem.
I've been historically bad at this kind of thing. Whenever I've done any sort of freelance work it has soon dried up through a lack of confidence, perseverence, and effort on my behalf. Copywriting, wrestling, TV work - all dried up because I lost my mojo, or got bored, or lazy. Let's see if we can change that, yeah?
- - - - - - - - -
David Bowie released a new song today, just over the internet and not in shops or anything (not that that matters anymore, right?), and everybody seemed quite surprised and pleased with it. It's alright. Certainly not terrible. But it's terribly zeitgeisty, and really he should know better at his age. Why bother? Just spend all day sleeping, drinking, reading... whatever the fuck you like, man.
This may say more about me than David Bowie.
Monday, January 07, 2013
07/01/13: RESOLUTIONS pt7
Can't shake a headache at the moment, which happens once in a while. I
get them for days on end, without warning, and nothing shifts or reduces
them until they decide to go.
I've always been something of a silent hypochondriac, worrying without much complaint that each acute pain or dull ache is a symptom of something incredibly fatal, that it's only a matter of time before whatever it is claims me, just another statistic.
My worst fear used to be meningitis, scared that I'd be named in the papers as a "brain bug" victim, with a terrible photo alongside, my vanity haunting me even in death. I had a friend at school who was worried she'd get attacked or raped but only because the newspaper would refer to her as a "Daventry girl" in the report. Oh, for such worries, eh?
I'd like one of those full body MOT things, you know, just to be sure, but I'd either be shocked at how little was wrong or they'd find something deeply unsexy and worrying, and curse my curiosity.
So, yeah, my head hurts again, and it will do until it doesn't. I'm not looking for sympathy, although feel free to give it. It's just another window.
7. Take A Picture Of Myself Wearing A Different T-shirt Every Day
I have, like, a hundred t-shirts. I don't ever wear some of them. But this year I will. For at least the duration of a photograph. Starting next week.
You might have noticed (at least I hope at least one of you has) that there's been no big, trailblazing announcement of my daily webcomic starting today, as previously planned. This is because, true to form, I realised on Friday that I hadn't sorted anything out for it, and so it'll have to wait another week.
In a way this works out better, because there'll still be a week of the original run left when I go to the London Super Comic Convention, and so I'll be able to hype the new run, and sell any copies of the self-printed issues with the promise that you'll get to read the final week before it goes live.
See, things do work out when I can't get my shit together!
I've always been something of a silent hypochondriac, worrying without much complaint that each acute pain or dull ache is a symptom of something incredibly fatal, that it's only a matter of time before whatever it is claims me, just another statistic.
My worst fear used to be meningitis, scared that I'd be named in the papers as a "brain bug" victim, with a terrible photo alongside, my vanity haunting me even in death. I had a friend at school who was worried she'd get attacked or raped but only because the newspaper would refer to her as a "Daventry girl" in the report. Oh, for such worries, eh?
I'd like one of those full body MOT things, you know, just to be sure, but I'd either be shocked at how little was wrong or they'd find something deeply unsexy and worrying, and curse my curiosity.
So, yeah, my head hurts again, and it will do until it doesn't. I'm not looking for sympathy, although feel free to give it. It's just another window.
- - - - - - - - -
7. Take A Picture Of Myself Wearing A Different T-shirt Every Day
I have, like, a hundred t-shirts. I don't ever wear some of them. But this year I will. For at least the duration of a photograph. Starting next week.
- - - - - - - - -
You might have noticed (at least I hope at least one of you has) that there's been no big, trailblazing announcement of my daily webcomic starting today, as previously planned. This is because, true to form, I realised on Friday that I hadn't sorted anything out for it, and so it'll have to wait another week.
In a way this works out better, because there'll still be a week of the original run left when I go to the London Super Comic Convention, and so I'll be able to hype the new run, and sell any copies of the self-printed issues with the promise that you'll get to read the final week before it goes live.
See, things do work out when I can't get my shit together!
Sunday, January 06, 2013
06/01/13: RESOLUTIONS pt6
I am 40 years old. Most of the time I don't act it, pretending (mostly unconsciously) to be a much younger man, liking music and TV and other stuff that I really should be past by now.
Sometimes, though, I feel every day of my age and more, never more so on a Sunday evening when I'm driving. Because that's when I like to listen to Paul O'Grady on Radio 2.
I don't know why I like the show. It's comfortable, I think, and reminds me, somehow, of a bygone era, when Sunday evenings meant family, and the weekly bath, and the end of the weekend. I think in some way it makes me think of my nan, even though she died years before the show started.
He plays the old-timey music (or newer music that even your grumpy dad could like), and evokes the good old days, of pre-decimal currency, exotic foreign holidays in Spain, and treats his listeners like family. It's just warm. And nice. And I don't apologise even a tiny bit for liking it.
6. Treat My Car Better
I'm not a car person, really. I mean, I like my car, but it's just something that gets me from A to B. I couldn't tell you how many miles it gets to the gallon, or anything like that. I just fill it up when it's empty.
But it has a few little dents in it, and some chips in the paint, and I've only washed it once in the last 2 year's. So I figured I should treat it with a bit more respect. So this year I'm going to get it washed every month, I'm going to get the dents and chips fixed, and keep it clean inside. I'm going to check the oil and water, and the tyres, more regularly, and all that jazz.
In short, I'm going to give my car a bit of love in 2013.
As I'm writing this my niece is watching Contagion. I don't get this kind of fear-mongering. Don't get me wrong, I'm a massive fan of the post-apocalypse, but I prefer a little of the fantastic in my end of the world. This, it's just weird. Watching people getting ill and dying until pretty much everyone has gotten ill and died. Grim. And it could happen tomorrow. Sleep tight.
Sometimes, though, I feel every day of my age and more, never more so on a Sunday evening when I'm driving. Because that's when I like to listen to Paul O'Grady on Radio 2.
I don't know why I like the show. It's comfortable, I think, and reminds me, somehow, of a bygone era, when Sunday evenings meant family, and the weekly bath, and the end of the weekend. I think in some way it makes me think of my nan, even though she died years before the show started.
He plays the old-timey music (or newer music that even your grumpy dad could like), and evokes the good old days, of pre-decimal currency, exotic foreign holidays in Spain, and treats his listeners like family. It's just warm. And nice. And I don't apologise even a tiny bit for liking it.
- - - - - - - - -
6. Treat My Car Better
I'm not a car person, really. I mean, I like my car, but it's just something that gets me from A to B. I couldn't tell you how many miles it gets to the gallon, or anything like that. I just fill it up when it's empty.
But it has a few little dents in it, and some chips in the paint, and I've only washed it once in the last 2 year's. So I figured I should treat it with a bit more respect. So this year I'm going to get it washed every month, I'm going to get the dents and chips fixed, and keep it clean inside. I'm going to check the oil and water, and the tyres, more regularly, and all that jazz.
In short, I'm going to give my car a bit of love in 2013.
- - - - - - - - -
As I'm writing this my niece is watching Contagion. I don't get this kind of fear-mongering. Don't get me wrong, I'm a massive fan of the post-apocalypse, but I prefer a little of the fantastic in my end of the world. This, it's just weird. Watching people getting ill and dying until pretty much everyone has gotten ill and died. Grim. And it could happen tomorrow. Sleep tight.
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