So there I was, on Saturday afternoon, chatting with Dave Fanning about Hergé, his (great) works, and the (not-so-great) Spielberg/Jackson adaptation of said works, when we got to the sticky issue of "faithfulness". I may have (accidentally) ended up sounding like the kind of saddo nerd to whom slavish faithfulness is intoxicating fan-boy catnip. But, like, y'know, I didn't mean to…

Take Zak Snyder's (snore) Watchmen, or Robert Rodriguez' (zzzz) Sin City. Both cravenly respectful adaptations of the source materials. Both technical experiments in trans-medium faithfulness that treat comics as mere storyboards. With intensely dull and unimaginative results.

The problem here is a formal one. Comics are (of course) not storyboards. Comic book panels are not the direct equivalent of cinematic "shots". They have their own visual language. Their own narrative logic and flow. And few people have ever spoken this language more eloquently and gracefully than Hergé. Sure, the Tintin stories are fun-filled and stuffed with the thrilling-est of derring-do. Sure, the characters (Tintin aside) are outrageous, lovable and hilarious. But it's not those elements that raise Tintin from pleasantly good to unforgettably great.

The things that make Tintin arguably¹ the greatest creation in the history of comics are all specific to the medium. Hergé's visual genius (disciplined, obsessive and hard-won) didn't lead to the creation of some sort of proto-cinema in book form. It wasn't a stiff skeleton waiting for animation to make it dance.

It celebrated the thing just about to happen. The pause between the stumble and the head-long plunge into a ravine. The thrill of the frozen moment just before a wielded cosh connects with an unsuspecting head. You could stare (breathlessly) at those moments for minutes at a time, terrified to turn the page.² Afraid to see the results of this thrillingly tense pause being released.

There are so many other examples. The long vertical thrust of panels where Tintin stands perilously on the edge of a cliff/building (as he does in The Black Island). The long horizontal thrust of panels where the long road stretches ever on (as it does in Tintin in Tibet). The sumptuous detail of the backgrounds (inviting the reader to pause and linger and return). The way every single extra, every single backgrounded or foregrounded unspeaking figure is invested with character. Each face telling their own untold stories.

These things (and many more) mark Tintin as, ultimately, a glorious celebration of the possibilities and pleasures of the comic book form. Specifically. You can faithfully reproduce narrative elements, dialogue, character, in live action or animation, but this X-factor,³ this thing that makes Tintin – Tintin, is, quite possibly, impossible to translate to another medium (particularly a comfortably mainstream piece of cinema).

And so, whatever about the cold/dead failings of motion-capture, whatever about the allegedly formulaic Hollywood-isation of this most European of icons, the most glaring flaw of all is that the soul of Tintin (our Tintin) just isn't there. And this absence really has nothing much to do with faithfulness (or otherwise). It's simply this.

Tintin = comics.

Producing a film/TV version is like dancing a poem. Or singing a painting. It may be a pleasurable thing, in and of itself, but it's not the thing (and, perhaps, it can never be). Particularly in this case. We're left with Tintin minus Tintin. Which is what, exactly? An above average action/adventure flick? A poor-man's Indiana Jones?

1. I emphasise arguably. [back]
2. Many of Tintin's most deliciously tense moments occupied a page's final panel. A classic example being those panels where a loud BANG! causes our hero to leap into the air and glance anxiously over his left shoulder (in the direction, of course, of the next page) toward the sound's source. Source not revealed till the page was excitedly turned. [back]
3. A compromised term these days, I know. [back]

Skateboarding and harmonica playing, together at last. An added touch of subcultural kool is supplied by the "radical" offer of free membership to…the National Harmonica League.¹ Way to feeblegrind the funbox, Hohner dudes.

1. The pauper's NHL. [back]

Part of the University of Limerick's "National Self Portrait Collection of Ireland", it was plonked (with little ceremony and less regard to the aesthetics of display) in a corridor and on an austere, breeze-blocked wall. In as much as you're ever aware of (or engaged with) the imagery you whizz by daily – my initial impressions were simply of a 70s, airbrushed thing. A crass and kitsch thing. A piece of "bad art".

But then, gradually and inexorably, it began quietly convincing me of its charms. No longer just gaudy crap, it became a lovably comic (and cosmic) piece of visual, Sci-Fi mysticism. One that appeared to cheerily disregard conventional notions of "good" and "bad". A piece of "nerd art"…or "B-Art" perhaps. Peter Bowles in a lost novelisation of Sapphire & Steele? The fact that it had been "dumped" in a corridor – a liminal space; between nowhere and somewhere else; neither here nor there (nor one thing or another) – seemed entirely fitting.

The enigmatic creator of this in-betweeny realm turned out to be a Michael Ashur. I wondered had he tired of this prismatic, spectral, Prog-Art approach. Was he still living amongst us or had he – like an airbrushed and ionised proton – been long since sucked into a mortal coil, through a wormhole, and out into the astral arms of the Godhead (or Galactus)?

Well according to his website, he's still inhabiting the same quotidian, meat-and-two-veg space as the rest of us. Still producing work that contemplates the "synchronicity between human and cosmic time"…

…and pieces that invite the viewer to "journey beyond the painterly surface in search of the universal…the infinite". Pieces like "Galactic Probe" (bestest name in the universe ever for an Irish artwork).

Cynics may bleat, "Aren't these all just Yes album sleeves?". Well…yes, kinda. But they transport me away. Away from breeze-blocked walls and damp and negative equity. Into a great beyond…with cool strobing light effects, and monoliths on the moon, and a giant foetus sucking its thumb at the outer edge of forever.

Back when I was a wee lad, I never lost my temper. I never accidentally stabbed my sister with a metal badge in the shape of a thumb.¹ I never did anything wrong. Ever.

There was, however, a small boy – coincidentally looking just like me and living in our house – who'd frequently commit acts of naughty badness. His name was "Jivvy", and he'd routinely depart the scene of various crimes just as I arrived. Leaving me to clean up his mess and take the rap for his indiscretions. Damn imaginary bastard.

In young Mia Blake – put-upon protagonist of Jinty's "Slave of the Mirror" (1974) – I recognise a kindred spirit. While slaving, skivvy-like, in the attic of her sister Janet's Cornwall boarding house, she stumbles across an antique mirror. An antique mirror in which a leering, diabolic face is reflected back.

A diabolic face whose penetrating gaze decides (just for yuks, presumably) to crush her will and force her to commit anti-social acts of boarding-house-destroying eeeevilll. She tries her best to resist…

…with mixed results.

Her sis, noticing this abrupt change in young Mia's attitude, decides to cheer her up…by nailing the devil mirror to her bedroom wall. Oh dear.

We've all been there. We've all told ourselves, "I'll never let demonic faces in mirrors (that no-one else can see but me) tell me what to do again. I'll kick the habit. Cold turkey". But then…you're up late. You're bored. You think, "One more quick look can't hurt". And then…

It cannot be defeated. It cannot be reasoned with. It wants nothing less than to devour, digest, and then shit out our souls (while adversely affecting the reputation of a seaside guest house). This is why I haven't stared into a mirror for 30 years. Jivvy lives there. And I must obey him…

1. This was one of the great tragic misunderstandings of my childhood. After one of my daily shouting matches with said sister, I (somewhat unusually) felt bad. "I know", I thought, "I'll offer her an olive branch. I'll give her a gift". The most kingly gift I could think of was a metal badge that had come free with one of that week's comics. It was in the shape of a "thumbs up" hand. I sat my sister down on the stairs and said "Close your eyes and do a thumbs up". This she did (suspiciously), upon which I produced the badge (hidden behind my back) with a flourish. So much of a flourish that the badge's pin jammed straight into her up-pointing thumb. And stayed there…as we both stared, disbelievingly, at the sight. Her thumb pierced by a small metal thumb. Shrieking and wailing followed. As I tried desperately to explain my good intentions…and how it had all gone horribly, nightmarishly wrong. [back]

1) It conflates big heads (i.e. big brains) with cruelty and mercilessness.

2) It conflates big heads with violent interspecial sexual predatoriness.

3) It implies that shrivelled and withered bodies are the inevitable result of unchecked intellectualism.

4) My 20-month-old daughter looked at it, pointed to the bug-eyed (damsel-carrying) fella in the foreground and said "Daddy!".

Yes, I've got a big head. I can't deny it. It bulges out freakishly at the back. Like Jeeves (after a feed of fish). Or (less flatteringly) John Merrick. And I am scrawny. But I've never invaded another world, obliterated its cities, and sex-kidnapped its females. Not once. Honest. It's just a crude and hurtful stereotype.

The big-headed get a constant kicking in Sci-Fi. Their relentless pursuit of knowledge leads inexorably (and inevitably) to an incongruous pursuit of galaxy-wide communistic/totalitarian empires of brutality. That's what you get for reading books, kids. Go out and get some fresh air before it's too late.

Of course, Mekon-like super evil might, instead, stem from childhood trauma. I can sympathise. Back in 1982 I (like most children of my generation) fell through rotting floorboards into an ancient sheep dip. On Achill Island. Result? I lay (miserable) in a hospital bed for some time, growing thinner and yellower till I was finally discharged into what should have been the loving embrace of my family. In the door I shuffled, body wasted, head ebulgent, to be greeted by two sisters who instantly pointed and shrieked – "E.T.!!!".¹

Human scum (with their regular heads). They will pay.

1. That looks wrong. [back]

"Who's yer man?", asks the English brother-in-law.

I explain…as best I can.

"I thought he was just some random nutter", the bro-in-law observes shrewdly.

I sip my beer, exhausted, as my brain tumbles (pleasantly) down a rabbit hole. It was just one of those weekends. Random and chaotic and ultimately lovely.

A gazillion thanks to Pat, Mel, Steve, Emma & Phil. They were stellar guests, spinning the humble canvases of Leviathan into magical wonderland gold – as Laurence Mackin kindly reported.

What I can say for definite is that the Comics discussion was stellar – Guardian cartoonist Steve Bell was in brilliantly good humoured and rambunctious form (although I would have paid a small fortune if that Blair at EP rumour had turned out to be true, just to see how Bell would have reacted). Pat Mills of 2000AD was the voice of wisdom on the panel, and Emma Vieceli did a terrific job in arguing the case for Manga. Favourite quote: “Boys’ comics are about adventures and events, girls’ comics are about the people those adventures and events happen to.” A genuinely illuminating afternoon in fine company.

Thanks to Naoise, thanks to a cuddly & handsome audience, thanks to those guys who made those nice pizzas that saved my life. It all flew past dizzyingly till thump! thump! down I came upon a heap of sticks and dry leaves, and the fun was over.

Event

Join us in the MindField on (Saturday) September 4th at 5 p.m. for a chaotic and fun-stuffed rocket ride through the inner and outer reaches of the comics and cartooning universes. Our intrepid and esteemed panel will cheerily dissect and debate the “sequential art” scene as it and was: offering thoughts, opinions and recollections on a wide range of topics, including: Classic British comics, Manga, Bande dessinée, Girls’ comics, John Major’s underpants, the Irish small presses, and much, much more. Masked and caped crusaders may also get an occasional mention…

Guests

Pat Mills is affectionately (and accurately) known as the “godfather of British comics“. A comic industry legend, he was the founder of 2000 AD, Battle and Action. As a writer he has created some of the UK’s most seminal and best-loved comic stories: Sláine, Charley’s War, ABC Warriors, Nemesis the Warlock and many more. Among the other credits on his extensive CV are Marshal Law, Metalzoic, The Punisher 2099, Requiem Vampire Knight and Batman: The Book of Shadows.

Emma Vieceli is a freelance artist and writer based in Cambridge. Artist for 2 of the acclaimed Manga Shakespeare graphic novels (and featured in the award-winning Comic Book Tattoo and Marvel's recent Girl Comics amongst other publications), she is currently working on two graphic novel series: one for Oni Press and one for Penguin Books. She also continues to work on her own independent series, Dragon Heir (printed through Sweatdrop Studios).

Steve Bell is one of most original and respected figures in contemporary cartooning. He has produced illustrations and comic strips for many different magazines, including Social Work Today, Punch, Private Eye, New Society, Radio Times, New Statesman, The Spectator and the Journalist. Since 1981 he has written and drawn the daily If… strip in The Guardian, creating such memorable images as – John Major with his underpants worn outside his trousers, Tony Blair with Margaret Thatcher’s rogue eyeball, and George W Bush as a chimpanzee. He has had twenty seven books published, including a cartoon autobiography of George Bush called Apes of Wrath, an anthology If… Marches On and, most recently, a Tony Blair self-help guide titled My Vision For a New You. His work has been published all over the world and he has won numerous awards.

Philip Barrett has been self-publishing comics since 2001, including writing and drawing 9 issues of his catch-all title 'Matter' and contributing to numerous anthologies. With Liam Geraghty he has produced 'Gazebo' and 'The Littlest Arsonist'. In 2010 the Verbal Arts Centre in Derry published Philip's 'best-of' collection 'The Human in Me'. He is a co-founder of Edition Book Arts which celebrates the craft of the book and self-publishing. Philip helped get the ball rolling on the regular Dublin Comic Jam and is particularly interested in how good comics are at documenting the collision between the worlds of the fantastical and the mundane.

Mel Gibson is a UK based comics scholar, consultant and Senior Lecturer at Northumbria University. She has run training events about comics and graphic novels for libraries, schools and other organisations since 1993. Her published research has addressed such varied topics as girls’ comics, picture books, children's literature, graphic novels and manga.

Barbara Windsor (paraphrased): ‘Ere! The match is about to start.

Old Vic: Yay! Come on England!

Barbara flicks on BBC 1 and…nothing but static and fuzz. No picture. No match. And you know why? Because what was on BBC 1 at that exact moment was Eastenders itself! So what we should have seen was a pub full of bewildered and blinking and head-fucked Albert Square residents staring at themselves staring at a screen…staring at themselves…ad infintium. It would have been a Truman Show meets The Matrix moment so quantumly postmodern it would have torn the fabric of reality to itty bitty pieces (like CERN the Soap Opera).

I was reminded of how close our universe came to collapsing in on itself by my copy of Titan Books’ Roy of the Rovers: World Cup Special. In the 1978 extracts Roy eases the pain of a (real-life) non-qualified nation by becoming player-manager of a (slightly unreal-life) national team.

Out of his (first) first eleven, six players are from Melchester Rovers (jobs for the boys), three (Nipper Lawrence, Mike Bateson & Johnny Dexter) are from “Blackport” and "Real Granpala" (other fictional teams that existed in the same comic but in parallel footballing dimensions) and two (Malcolm MacDonald and Trevor Francis) are drawings of actual 3-dimensional players who live in our own real universe. I say “our own real universe”…but at this point the inter-textual, worlds-colliding weirdness makes you doubt the (meat 'n' two veg) realness of anything.

I feel terribly lost. Like an Eastender gawping at myself gawping at myself gawping at myself. Following the white rabbit…

In my defense, however, I kept these dark thoughts to myself (shielding them even from the constantly prying and judgmental eyes of God). Readers of the 1980s Eagle showed no such discretion. Week after week they would – for the princely sum of £5 – openly lay bare their obsessions in the brain-zappingly mental "Glamorous Teacher".

Suchard Elegance Chocs? Slurping and money-grabbing masters Meldrum & Locke? Soft-focus (soft porn) pics of "a pretty miss" with come-hither-young-man eyes? Chuckle! Oh, 1982. You're a scream! No wonder I'm on so much medication…

Doing so in the current climate of woe, penury & ruination, however, might seem crass and brazenly ostentatious. Like driving a diamond-encrusted SUV through a soup kitchen full of orphans. Thank the thirty lords, then, for "Footsie" – 25 cents worth of not-much-fun.

Rule number 1: If you're peddling a toy that's highly likely to disappoint, don't (whatever you do) put illustrations of crushed & disappointed-looking children on the packet. It rather gives the game away. In fairness to the boy, I suppose, he is at least attempting a half-hearted "Hey! This is brilliant!" act of denial. The girl, in contrast, is in no mood for mendacity. It's fucking rubbish…and she knows it.

Though I've deduced that hopping is somehow involved, I cheerily admit to being a bit fuzzy on exactly what Footsie is supposed to do. Given the name, with its connotations of gentle physical flirtation, might it be a tool for early sexual exploration? One that doesn't involve an invasion of private space?

"I daren't speak to Lucy…or even go very near her. If I could, though, just get my Footsie ball to cannon into hers…I'm sure she'd know something of my love."

Or could (as I suspect) these apparently harmless items instead be the heralds of a brutal, recession-driven, dystopia? One in which robotic orbs drag idle kiddies off to government-run slave labour camps?

I'm telling you. It's only a matter of time.

Of all the many wild 'n' wacky notions entertained and promoted by orgainsed religions, few can be as amusingly bonkos as the idea that (human) earthly adherents of a deity have a responsibility to protect their God from "offensive" criticism, satire, or name-calling. God may be infinitely wise, loving, and compassionate but He¹ gets a right hump when the ingrates he created in his image start taking the piss out of him. If I were omnipotent and omniscient I'd like to think I'd be a bit more thick-skinned.²

Luckily for him, many of his earthbound flunkies dedicate their wretched lives (in this vale of tears) to stopping any of this nasty criticism from floating into his ethereal earholes. Sometimes, alas, portions of the slagging do make it across the void separating the earthly and the divine and God goes totally mental. He gives us AIDS. He causes hurricanes. He makes our lives miserable – opening giant cans of whupass until we learn our lessons and re-meek & un-deprave ourselves.

Lesson to be learned? Here's a guy you don't want to offend. He's like a drunken Godzilla with nappy rash and a mouth full of bombs. He's mad, bad and dangerous to upset (and there's no escaping his gaze). He makes Galactus look like a total pussy.

Let's be grateful then that the previously dormant & slumbering prohibition on blasphemy in our constitution is currently being reignited and made "operable" by Minister for Justice, Dermot Ahern. As it stands, blasphemy (as an offence) is impossible to define. This lack of definition has rendered it fuzzy and amorphous – extending an open invitation to demented God-haters to "blaspheme" with impunity. You think the recent May downpours are evidence of climate change and global warming? Think again, unbelievers! The showers are actually Our Lord simultaneously weeping wounded tears and slashing enraged jets of holy piss down on our constantly blaspheming heads.

Once the legal fuzziness has been removed (by the giant Fuzz-Buster of state) we'll see the shape and outline of blasphemy clearly once more. Even more impressively, we should soon (DPP willing) be able to fling cough-softening fines around and licence the Guards to boot in doors and seize inflammatory material – hopefully before God has a chance to flick through it and go ballistic.

The benefits of a less tetchy and irritable God are obvious. The weather would improve (we might finally get a summer). "Natural" disasters would all but disappear. Outbreaks of frog & locust plagues would be significantly reduced. Anti-social teens loitering on street corners would be replaced by caroling angels and chortling nekkid cherubs. It would be a fine world. A better world.

Why would anyone, other than creepy avant-gardey weirdo artists, want to scupper such a future?

1. Surely a "He" in this case. [back]
2. I speak throughout of Christian things, as that's what I know (and all I know well). [back]

It may have something to do with a new blogging project that has "cunts" (phnarr) in the title. It may, instead, be related to the fact that I'm reading a book about shit. Or, it could, simply, be all down to the omnipresent recession. Everything else is.

Anyway, it struck me, the other day, that I'd no idea what the legal definition of “obscenity" is in 21st century Ireland. Could, for example, one be fined/jailed for obscene acts & works? Did “obscenity", as a legal concept, even exist anymore?

In a bid to answer these vexing questions I did what any serious researcher and seeker after knowledge would. I asked my "followers" on Twitter. Follower Crehan pointed me in the direction of the 1929 Censorship of Publications Act – a document that contains the following choice nugget RE: “indecency".

the word "indecent" shall be construed as including suggestive of, or inciting to sexual immorality or unnatural vice or likely in any other similar way to corrupt or deprave.

Before you chortle, roll the eyes affectionately, and say “Ah! The old days!", bear in mind that the above definition is (Follower Crehan assures me) still (still!) the law. God bless the state that, in its infinite wisdom, protects us from the corrupting durtiness of sex. With a stabilising and paternal hand it pours cold waters on our raging mickies. Without it we would, surely, be wanking openly in the streets and rutting passers-by like drooling pigs in heat. Christ…we're filthy bastards altogether.

Later that day, Follower McGarr telephoned me as I chewed contemplatively on an elevenses sausage. Between mouthfuls of meat (waaa!) we discussed (among other things) Alan Moore's Lost Girls, The Daily Mail (but of course), and (for reasons I can't precisely recall) the laxity of tax legislation. All very pleasant and diverting but, with appetite whetted, I wanted more.

So, in a half-assed amateur looky-uppy spirit, I opened a few books. First port of call was Murdoch's Dictionary of Irish Law (5th ed). “Obscenity" led on (as it does) to “Indecency" where the following was found.

Indecency – Any act which offends modesty, causes scandal or injures the morals of the community.
[...]
The publication or utterance of indecent matter is an offence and is required to be punishable by law.

Now I've always thought (Satan-worshiping lover of depravity that I am) that one of the functions (nay, duties) of art is to be unsettling, upsetting, challenging, discombobulating etc. There are plenty of community “morals" that I'd enjoy seeing “injured", and let's not forget scandal-causing: one of the most entertaining acts a human/artist can engage in. Yet, it turns out, such things are required to be punishable by law. Take that hippies!

Where's this post leading? Not sure…but I'd like to veer off on a slight tangent and mention Irish satire. One of the maddening aspects of our national “satire" (and other “subversive" forms of expression) has traditionally been how it's reigned itself in in the face of “Ah now!" culture.

“Ah now…you can't say that". “Ah now…that's not on". “Ah now". “Ah now".

Ah now? Ah fuck off.

The perfect response to (and antidote for) fat-necked Fianna Fáil soul-destroyers, banking fucknuts, The Sunday Independent, and all the myriad life-sapping forces that surround us is not cuddly ("Sure, it's all a bit of fun!") mickey-taking, but properly transgressive and (yes) even obscene "art" (define that how you will). Forget whoopee cushions, let's have some proper bombs. Old-timey anarchist ones. Ah now. Ah now. Kaboom!

Tomorrow I'll kick things off by…let's see…uhm wandering around town in a provocative t-shirt. On it will be a cartoon horse, wearing knee high boots and lipstick, pissing on a bishop. You have to start somewhere.

Conclusion: This, I know, has rambled, raved and meandered. But it's merely a kicking off point. An opening for a chat. Thoughts? Questions? Free legal advice? Over to you.

While her female schoolmates trade smelly rubbers and fancy notepaper, independent Suzi mopes about the playing fields watching the lads stand around a football.

Her presence does not go unnoticed or uncommented on. All those long, solitary hours spent leaning against a wall with her hands thrust firmly in pockets may have paid off.

Or not…¹

While this brutal rebuff isn't quite shocking enough to make Suzi withdraw her empocketed hands (before pressing them to tear-stained eyes), it does cause her to despair of her gender entrapment.

Refusing to surrender to this sense of hopelessness Suzi proceeds to (optimistically and desperately) follow the boys hither and yon – earning the following savage put-down.

Ouch. "If only they'd understand how much I want to play football", she thinks, gazing straight into the camera (and straight into the soul of the moved reader).

A short while later and the (relatively) kindly and sensitive Dave spies our heroine displaying some silky ball skills – hands (once again) glued to pocket interiors.²

As astute observers will have noticed, Dave is male and (by the look of him) in his early teens. Given these facts, we should treat the literalness of the words "Suzi's pretty good with that football" with several pinches of salt. A more accurate translation of that thought bubble might be – "I'd very much like to vigorously kiss and cuddle Suzi".

Says he to her, "Where did you learn to play like that?". Says she in reply, "Oh just by watching you boys play, and I sometimes practise here alone". And why, in case we need reminding, is she forced into this lonely activity?

Yowsers. Just when you're beginning to think that the story's punchline will involve gender reassignment surgery, in steps Dave to offer something pitched halfway between reassurance and condescension.

Skip forward to the day of the big match. Disaster strikes! At the playing field Derek breaks the bad news to distraught teammates – "Jimmy can't come. He's ill in bed". Who will take his place? Dave provides the (obvious) answer – self-loathing Suzi!

In spite of the lads' hostile incredulity (and the absence of pockets in her shorts), Suzi leads the team to glory.

Not a thing of beauty. A goal-mouth scramble; a static (Zombie-like) defence; an unorthodox, straight-legged toe-poke – but (as the fella says) they all count.

Final score? 3-2. "Suzi's the champ!", cries a fickle youngster. The socially constructed barriers that separate and segragate the sexes have been triumphantly demolished. The world is forever changed.

Except, of course, it isn't. Reactionary editorial forces at Debbie HQ have baulked at the possible implications and pressed the reset button.

Phew! With her silly, tom-boyish flirtation out of the way Suzi is free to let her hair down and allow her true self to shine forth. Gone is the "rebellious" leather jacket and out of the pockets (at last) come the hands. The mystical fathers of patriarchy smirk down from their kingdom in the clouds. All is right with the world. Let's boogie.

1. Her brother Derek, it would appear, is an enthusiastic advocate of the "Girls are twittery simpering idiots" school of thought. [back]
2. Recurring motif this. [back]

Given the (rather amusing) collapse of the global financial system, 2009 should prove a big year for rummaging through skips. While I endorse the activity, I don't welcome the competition. Uncontested skip-rummaging has been good to me.

Today's post concerns a recent find – a 27 year old Jinty annual thoughtlessly tossed away by a heartless owner. On page 24 of said volume is "Make friends with your Mirror!" – a jolly (but evil) feature designed to make young women feel cripplingly shit about themselves.

After being warned of the heartache caused by over-sized spectacles ("She's the Girl with the Big Glasses!") and the fashion disasters that befall those who don't check their rears in mirrors ("She's Backing a Loser!"), we're eventually "treated" to a savage attack on careless and "unladylike" sitting.

A trio of girls relax, hang out, and shoot the breeze. A scene that speaks eloquently of youthful days when friendship was all that mattered…unless, that is, you happen to work for Jinty…

Take that, Penny. Boys could be watching. Unsympathetic mirrors could be nearby (waiting to deliver damning critiques). You can't be too careful, especially when you're "ten pounds too heavy to look elegant".

Neither of her pals escape Jinty's withering gaze either. Sara (centre) gets it in neck for being too lanky & self-conscious while Di (right) gets roundly tut-tutted for sitting astride her chair in an unbecoming act of tom-boyish defiance. The Jinty ideal is obviously an unforgiving & inflexible one. Living up to it would take oodles of hard work, plenty of determination and (crucially) buckets of self-loathing.

Roy of the Rovers never treated us with this kind of contempt.

One remembered example that immediately leapt up & out at me concerned the mis-matched conflict that raged (or, should I say, smouldered?) between evil fag-pushing super-villian Nick O'Teen and Krypton's favourite son.

Engineered by the UK's Health Education Council, and running from 1980-1982, the campaign (and basic narrative) made itself known to me through ads such as the above (planted in various mainstream comics).

The words "Free Pack" (though perhaps ill-chosen given the anti-smoking theme) seized both my attention and imagination. Back in those rain-lashed, glamour-starved & cash-strapped days we'd have gleefully accepted anything if it were given away free (Vials of anthrax; Sacks of depleted uranium; Boxes of surgical waste – it mattered not).

Choosing to ignore (as the Health Education Council themselves apparently did) the "Offer only available in the UK" warning, I giddily popped an envelope in the post and prepared myself for a 28 day wait. The day after the contents (of which I remember little) finally arrived I took them into school, dramatically produced them from my bag, and misleadingly announced to agog and hugely impressed classmates that I'd won these treasures in a competition. Compared to the lumps of coal and stale communion wafers we were accustomed to playing with these were rare & exotic wonders indeed.

What I hadn't realised (until Lew Stringer recently set me straight) was that isolated panels like the above were but the tips of the campaign's icebergs. Growing up in two (domestic) channel Ireland had deprived me of access to gems like this.

Sweet suffering Jesus! Frank "Brutal Vigilante Vengeance" Miller himself couldn't have penned a more savage tale of wildly excessive superhero intervention. A few points to consider & suck on.

1) It appears that Nick O'Teen's only villainous "power" is sly persuasiveness (unless you count chronic ill-health as a power).

2) Superman is one of the most powerful entities in the DC universe.

3) The extent to which Nick O'Teen can be considered "evil" (as stated above) is surely debatable.

4) Er…Superman appears to have just killed him. Call me a wussy old liberal hand-wringer if you wish, but lobbing someone 400 feet into the air for merely offering kids a few ciggies seems (to me) a tad on the harsh side.

5) Though Supes is clearly Krypto-American, Nick's ethnicity/nationality is a bit harder to work out. While the flaming red hair and O'Surname would seem to indicate possible Paddy-bashing, the prominent honker worryingly suggests that the Health Education Council considers The Protocols of the Elders of Zion required reading. Nick O'Teen or Nickenstein? Two birds. One stone.

Potentially racist imagery aside, it's amusing (and rather charming) to think that a cackling peddler of cigarettes could once have personified a parent's worst fears.

Suggestions for a 2008 version? While wholesome chiddlers contentedly play & frolic, a dribbling, greasy, bespectacled wretch named Pete O'Foyle leaps shrieking from the bushes. By his side is drooling, boggle-eyed sidekick – Kitty Fiddler. In Pete's hand we see a packet. A close-up reveals its contents to be, not cigarettes, but rather row upon row of tiny oozing cocks. Each one with a leering face of its own.

Call the Daily Mail and get me Clark Kent – stat!