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!

No (to all three). It was the below…and she brought it home.

Yes folks, it's a Sci-Fi comic about Switzerland.¹ A promotional and propagandic Sci-Fi comic about Switzerland. A Sci-Fi comic about Switzerland that incessantly smashes you over the head with the sentiment "Switzerland is simply marvelous!".

The plot is far too laboured and Captain Planet-esque to warrant summarising in much detail here (four ethnically diverse Swiss youths come together to blah, blah, blither etc), but the below image should give you a representative (and slightly tummy-upsetting) taste.²

For those who (like me) spent their teenage years frantically masturbating their way to chronic short-sightedness, some text reproduction might be in order.

To save the Galactic Synchrotron from disintegration, TIMEAGENT I.D. uses the holocom to go back one thousand years in Cyberspace to "21st Century Switzerland". Here she hopes to find the rescuing formula, for the inhabitants of this small country are considered to be "Masters of Time": they manufacture complex instruments called "watches", amazingly precise forerunners of the Synchrotron…

Galactic Synchotron? Holocom? Going back one thousand years in Cyberspace?! Techno-babbling, Sci-Fi gobbledeegook of the highest (i.e. lowest) order. Also, describing someone's watch as an "amazingly precise forerunner of the Synchrotron" is an almost guaranteed way of blowing one's secret cover and exposing oneself as a 31st century Timeagent. Constant references to (for example) "your present time period" and the "5th Interstellar War" have much the same effect.

While In The Land That Invented the Future is essentially just a relentlessy tedious (and willfully banal) piece of thrown-together Sci-Fi muck, it shares the same crippling deficiencies found in most such "edutainment". It's preachy, it's self-satisfied, and it's keen to "improve" its readers' grubby little minds. Three key ingredients for a "shit comic" pie. A pie that any young comic lover, worth her/his salt, would puke into the nearest bin.

Still better than Voyager though…

1. Brought to us by Prasenz Schweiz PRS – "an official body of the Swiss Confederation [that] promotes the distribution of information about Switzerland worldwide". To what end, I'm not sure. [back]
2. Click to enlarge. [back]

First, we had the jolly VHS version. All colourful & kitsch family fun.

Then came the DVD. Still vibrant and cartoony, but with just a hint of tough guy cool.

Now check out 2008's Blu-ray "Special Edition"…

Holy revisionist Bat-Repackaging, Batman! Adam West's Caped (and camp) Crusader has been forced aboard the (yawn!) Miller/Nolan gravy train and reimagined as a gritty, po-faced Dark Knight.

Out with the Gee Whizz-ing of Burt Ward's Robin. In with the billowing cloaks and sombre (urban gothic) palette. Expect plenty of confused parents and disappointed ("What the hell's this goofy shit?") young fellas this Christmas.

I've mentioned (somewhere) before that I, like most children, was more than happy to mix, match and mash together toy worlds and universes in the name of fun. This tolerance of inconsistency led to situations where Star Wars figures happily played 5-a-side soccer with Subbuteo balls, "Sylvanian Families" found their rustic cottages transformed into Ewok tree houses, and Sindy & Action Man shared both a bed and tedious domestic "adventures". All of this was, in my imaginative multiverse, perfectly acceptable.

There were, however, situations when even I was forced to draw the line and cry "Stop the lights! That don't make one lick of sense". A case in point? The conceptually nutty (and brazenly exploitative) phenomenon that was/is the "Superhero/villian plus Ridiculous & Unnecessary Vehicle" toy. You know the ones. Spider-Man on a quad bike. The Hulk driving a JCB. Superman in his Supercopter.¹ Dr Doom on a Pogo Stick. That kind of thing.

Since the makers of Manky Toys never miss a trick or a trend, I was in no way surprised to find just such an unlikely 2 Euro pairing in Wickham Street's Europlanet (or whatever it's actually called).² The hero included was the ubiquitous (and aforementioned) Spider-Man (he absolutely dominates the Manky market). Nothing particularly interesting or unusual about him – other than a "Sacred Heart" chest light (we've seen this before), a gold spider on each breast, and the usual manky absence of a paint job on his back half.

The real star of the pack is Spidey's cuddly, chirpy, freaky, Jimbo & the Jet-Set-esque means of transport. Here "he" is.

Awww. Ain't he cute? Big, googly, moist headlamp eyes and a stuck-on-spider button nose. All he wants in life is to wuv you (and to be wuvved in return).

Plastered all over his un-aerodynamic body are stickers advertising his pal Spidey's strengths and talents.

1) He's tough.

2) He's fast.³

3) He's…er…the highest point…

Despite our little friend's enthusiasm for his friend/master, problems of scale (and manky production) render him sadly useless on a practical level. Where's a shrink (or grow) ray when you need one?

Anyhoo, the midnight hour approaches and the voice of reason suggests 'tis time for bed. Here's a gratuitous ass-shot as a parting gift.

The licence plate (or cryptic message) is unexpectedly official (or mysterious). The rudimentary anus is simply hilarious.

1. Er, can't he fly? Ed. [back]
2. I think it used to be Black Spot records. [back]
3. Or "excellent" if you interpret this boast as Limerickian slang. [back]

With the sad passing of Euro 2008 (and the resultant football famine) some of you may have slipped (wailing and gnashing your teeth) into a slough of despond. If so, then dry your eyes and take heart. I have news that may cheer thee.

After years spent idling on the sidelines (or wandering the football wilderness) a legend of the game is lacing up his boots once more. Toni Polster? Nein. Tony Grealish? Sadly no…but someone even more exciting (if such a thing were possible). Roy Race – the most gifted lefty ever to grace the game – is back in print (courtesy of Titan Books) and riding high on a British comic reprint wave.

The first volume of this improbable (but most welcome) revival – The Best of Roy of the Rovers: The 1980s – has already been released, and even now sits happily on my shelves. To tell us more about the present and future of this noble project I turned to David "My Pal at Titan" Leach (his official handle is "Graphic Novels Editor" or some such). Here follows a brief interview (me in bold).

Can you give us an idea of the process that lead to these reprints being given the green light?

Actually I can't. The Roy of the Rovers deal was green-lit before my time. I was just handed the entire Roy project on my first day at Titan and told to do my worst.

Was much of the original art available to you or were you relying on scans from the comics themselves?

Unfortunately we have no access to any original artwork, what little survives is in the hands of private collectors. (In fact I found a stack at a local comic mart going for as little as £35 a pop, all drawn by David Sque and I've got details if anyone's interested?)

Instead we're making use of the Egmont bound comic archive and the incredible collection of Mark Towers, who runs the official Roy of the Rovers website and has one of the only complete collections of Roy in the world.

There seems to be a renewed interest in "classic" British comics – what with the recent Eagle, Commando, 2000 AD (etc) reprints. Did the success of these encourage Titan to reprint Roy?

Oh absolutely, there is certainly a demand for reprints of the 'classic' British comics of the 70's & 80's. There's a real nostalgia for the comics of my generation's youth and I think there's going to be some very excited Brit comic fans filling their shelves with Titan books in the coming years.

The Commando/Eagle publications seem aimed more at the impulse-buying/novelty gift market. With Roy, however, Titan seems to be catering for both the casual fan (with the "Best of.." publications) as well as the more serious collector/enthusiast (with the chronological volumes). Can you tell us a bit more about the decision to present the reprints in this way?

I think what Titan does well is to understand the market for books. With Roy it was decided that, as a franchise, it could support 3 different titles, each with its own unique style and branding. The Best of, The Archive and The Bumper.

The Archive will showcase Roy's entire football career in books marked as seasons starting with his debut 1959 season. It'll have a commentary as well as "making of" features – the book equivalent of a DVD bonus disc. The book will also have a dust jacket and is aimed more at the collector.

The Best of will showcase a couple of season's worth of action from the 70's, 80's & 90's. Of the three books this will be the most 'magazine-like' with a flexi-cover and no new material bar an introduction. For the first book I managed to secure a foreword by Gary Lineker and for the 2nd 80's book which I'm hoping to call Best of the 1980s: The Rematch! we've got Frank Skinner. W.H. Smiths are pushing it as a perfect Father's Day present.

And I'm hoping that's exactly the sort of person who buys it. Dads who remember Roy from their youth. I'm amazed at the number of 40 year old men I've mentioned Roy to who actually get misty eyed and excited at the prospect of a Roy book and these men aren't your traditional comic fans. It's easy to forget that Roy is an institution.

And finally, The Bumper Book of Roy, which will be our Christmas book. It's going to feature a selection of the best strips, articles, vintage quizzes and stories taken from the Roy and Tiger annuals dated from 1957 – 1972. I like to imagine that come Christmas morning, little boys and their dads are going to be lying on the floor surrounded by mounds of wrapping paper deeply engrossed in their preferred annuals.

Does the popularity of such titles suggest any resurgence in the British "adventure/sport comic" market or are reprints all we are likely to continue seeing for the foreseeable future? (In other words, is there any chance of a new RotR title?)

Not from us, no. Titan acquired the rights to reprint Roy's entire back catalogue which don't forget is 39 years long! That's going to be a lot of books so I'm going to be very busy and very old by the time it's all over.

Why (do you think) were decent British comic reprints so slow in appearing until comparatively recently? Was it solely a rights issue?

I suppose because no one, apart from Titan, knew that the demand existed. I think Titan lead the way with their reprint books and the wider publishing world is now frantic to join the club. It's probably the best time in history to be a comics fan, particularly a British comics fan.

But I don't think it has anything to do with rights issues. Companies who own these old characters are always eager to open them up to new markets and since many of them no longer produce comic strips it's up to specialist publishers like Titan to approach and make them offers they can't refuse.

The period covered in the first reprint, The Best of Roy of the Rovers: The 1980s, coincides with the tenure of this blog's old pal David Sque. Many Roy fans would feel that Sque's period in charge (of the art) was something of a "Golden Age" for the story. Do you agree, and, if so, why do you think that was the case?

It's the era everybody remembers and identifies with, and David Sque's version of Roy is the definitive version – right down to the girly mullet. David's artwork seems synonymous with Roy. I know it's what I see when I close my eyes.

This period of Roy's career was filled with high drama and action on and off the pitch. It was the era of Dallas and Roy mirrored this. His stories weren't just about football, the reader got involved with his home life, his struggles with running the club, him battling adversity and injury and lets not forget the terrorist car bombing or assassin's bullet (life was never dull for Roy, except for that dreadful summer when he played cricket!). There was also a continuity to the strip unlike anything ever seen before or since. Roy of the Rovers was a single continuous 39 year long adventure told in football seasons.

Also, I think David's artwork brought a highly believable reality to the strip. With a regular artist, the reader gets used to his style and it becomes second nature to them – and as a result they can get more involved in the stories, which in my opinion are paramount. If the story doesn't work, it doesn't matter how good the artwork is, it's going to be quickly forgotten. And Roy's popularity is down to great artwork and a great script.

Given that Titan have acquired rights to some of the Egmont back catalogue, can we expect any other titles to be reprinted in the near future? Can you give us an idea of the timetable for the various Roy releases?

Next up for Roy in 2008 will be the Bumper Book followed by the first Archive edition.

In 2009, Titan will be unleashing both The Best of Battle and The Best of Action. Followed by Special collected editions of Sgt Easy, Johnny Red and Rat Pack (and that’s not even mentioning classic newspaper strips).

Finally, who shot Roy again? I can't remember…

I always get this wrong. All know is it was one of the following, they all have an axe to grind with Roy and they've all publicly threatened him with violence!

So take your pick from -

Vic Guthrie – disgruntled fellow team mate.

Arthur Logan – furious father of Melchester's new striker, Kenny Logan.

Elton Blake – angry out of work actor.

Arnie Meckiff – Roy's wheeler dealer cousin.

Trevor Brinsden – Melchester Rover's Uber-fan.

For what it's worth. My money's on Colonel Peacock in the kitchen with the lead-pipe. But for the full answer you're just going to have to buy the book and find out yourself!

(Interview Ends)

As highlighted by David (and echoed over on Steve Holland's terrific Bear Alley) the "Soap Opera" qualities of early/mid 80s RotR are a large part of what makes this period so fondly remembered. Realising that liberal doses of tragedy and failure are just those elements that make sporting happy endings all the sweeter (and more welcome), Roy scribe Tom Tully loaded the 2 year run collected here with shocking twists and turns to beat the band. Melchester Rovers find themselves relegated, the Races' marriage hits the rocks, and (most dramatically of all) Roy follows J R Ewing's lead and gets himself shot. Of course, it all ends in David Sque's distinctive broad smiles, but the road to that cheery conclusion was a compellingly rocky one.

Something often remarked upon (by meself and others), is how the RotR world exists in a twilight zone straddling outright fantasy and "real world" reality. Thus, while all the teams in the league(s) Melchester compete in are entirely fictional (Burndean, Danefield, Walford etc), figures like Alf Ramsey (caretaker Rovers manager after Roy gets shot) and events like the Charles & Diana wedding are frequently referenced and depicted. This tendency toward curious crossovers was to reach its questionable zenith (or nadir?) with the the arrival (in Melchester colours) of Spandau Ballet, Emlyn Hughes and Bob Wilson.

One of the more (potentially) amusing moments in the Best of volume comes during a league match in which Alf Ramsey is in charge. Rovers win a corner and Ramsey waves Vic "Superbrat" Guthrie up from the back, indicating that he wants him to stand in front of the opposition 'keeper.

Cut to the ever loquacious Melchester crowd where one fan turns to his neighbour and says (something like), "That's just what Alf used to ask Jackie Charlton to do when he was managing England". At this point the neighbour might have (and should have) responded by asking "Who's Jackie Charlton?!" – provoking the following exchange:

"Y'know, the fella who played all them years for Leeds United"

"Who are Leeds United?"

At that point a look of existential terror would cross the original speaker's face as the Roy universe collapsed under the weight of incongruity and illogic.

But enough. While you waste your precious time reading these words you could be grabbing your coat, dashing to the nearest bookshop, and purchasing a copy of this fantabulous volume for yourself.

Go. Go now.

As the "Dreadful Thoughts" club badges begin to wing their way around this wide world (i.e. Ireland) my thoughts have turned from the sunlit plains of munificence to the shadowy valleys of greed. I've enjoyed being a giver – but now it's time to take something (badge-shaped) back.

Midget Wrangler (spurred on by Damien Mulley) recently introduced us to the "Filthy" badge – a scarce and highly-desirable item awarded to those bloggers who've managed to plumb the depths (or should that be scale the heights?) of delicious dirtiness. What follows is my modest bid for this rare prize.

Though the universes of Star Trek, Buffy and Harry Potter (!) have been thoroughly probed and penetrated by writers of slash/adult fan fiction, there remain, I'm happy to say, some niche (and outré) areas of "fandom" that have yet to be fully explored. While, for instance, the Buffy section on (the indispensable) adultfanfiction.net bursts at its seams with over 3500 tales,¹ the My Little Pony archive can boast but one sad, solitary entry – "Belle of the Ball Until Dawn Comes". Admittedly, this may be one more entry than you expected…

Getting it on for the titillation and entertainment of…I'm not sure who exactly,² are the below pair – Twinkle Twirl (L) & Star Catcher (R):

While daylight hours no doubt find them prancing gaily about the fields and meadows of Ponyland, they're at play of a different sort once night falls:

"Star Catcher!" She breathed. "HARDER!" She panted in a breathy equine sort of way, shivering.

He thrust into her harder still, gasping as he did.. IN and OUT…. in and out… back and forth… faster and faster… "Oh! TWINKLE!" He called out heavily. "Twinkle Twirl… you're wonderful…!!!!!"

Hmmm. Though I may have forgotten (due to the nepenthean effects of passion), I don't think that I've ever called out – at the moment of climax – "Oh! [insert name here].. you're wonderful…!!!!!"

It's probably a (little) pony thing…as (unless I'm not doing 'it' right) is the panty, equine, breathy-shivering (not to mention the nibbling, biting and "loving head butts").

Given the tight shorts, moustaches, Hawaiian shirts, camp & arch Englishmen, purring & pistoning Ferrari engines (etc) – it's quite surprising that the adventures of Thomas Sullivan Magnum IV (et al) have not been more enthusiastically "slashed".

Again we find but one lone example, though that makes up for the general lack by giving us good 'n' juicy stuff. In "Peeping" we're introduced to two colourful (but fairly obvious) pairings – Rick/T.C. (I always suspected as much) and Magnum/Higgins (that bitchy, but affectionate, verbal sparring was a dead give-away). Kicking us off in gentle fashion is the former couple:

Rick stared at the broad back of his best friend and lover. Walking over, Rick wrapped his arm around his lover’s waist. Leaning over he rested his head on his beloved’s shoulder. Turning his head, he kissed his lover’s neck, then reached for his lover’s glass and drank the whiskey.

"Rick! Stop that."

"Sorry T.C…." Rick kissed T.C. again, "But I love to kiss you with whisky lips."

"And I love to taste you with whisky tongue."

All so well and so tender, but the motor is quickly revved up a few notches:

Using his strong hand, so gentle on the joystick of a copter, so firm on his lover's flesh. He caressed his lover’s cock, squeezing and massaging until he could feel his lover rocking and whining for T.C. to bring him off.

I'll never look at T.C.'s "chopper"…

…in quite the same way again…

One assumes that this intimate exchange is but the warm-up for the main event – the Magnum/Higgy bonkfest – but no. Their love act is but an afterthought and takes place entirely "off-screen". That doesn't, however, prevent the build-up from from being anything less than the stuff of high hilarity:

Magnum walked back to his brilliant red Ferrari and started the engine. Half way back to his cottage he called ahead to the house.

"Hello, Mildred?" Magnum said as Higgin’s [sic] wife answered.

"Yes?"

"Tell Higgy to go into the cottage and be naked, ass up when I get home. I’m about 15 minutes away."

That's it! The end! "Higgy" waits (forever), "ass up" and naked in the cottage. What happens next is left to our fertile & licentious imaginations. Lovers of explosive crescendos and "money shots" will, no doubt, feel somewhat teased and cheated.³

Badge, please.⁴

1. And features one story ("My Own Demons") that lists the following perplexing – and mildly terrifying – codes in its summary: Abuse, Anal, Angst, AU/AR, BDSM, B-Mod, Bond, BP, DP, F/F, H/C, HJ, Humil, Language, MC, OC, Oral, Other, Preg, S&M, SH, Slave, SoloF, SoloM, Tort, Toys, Trans, UST, WAFF, WIP, Yuri. [back]
2. What fetish, one wonders, is being catered for here? [back]
3. And what's this with a Mrs. Higgins? I always thought (even before reading this) that Mr. H was a "man's man"…if you get my meaning. [back]
4. I can't finish without mentioning a classic line from a Captain Scarlet/Captain Blue story – "Hush Adam, I feel the same way, you were just braver than me, I may be indestructible, but my heart isn't." Genius. [back]

Doubtless "Groot", in a moment of vivid self-awareness, thought to himself, "I'm a root (well, sort of) and I'm giant…I SHALL BE GROOT!". He then imposed this self-appointed moniker on those he set out to terrify and obliterate. It's a bit rich really – like those tedious "characters" who tell you what they want their nickname to be.

Unlike the plucky little feller in the bottom left I'd have defied/antagonised Groot by continually getting his name wrong. Tree-Man-dous! Oak-God-Almighty! Plant Chap! He'd go mental.

The tactic adopted by many of the most memorable monsters, however, is simply to turn up, start opening cans of whupass, and let the fleeing hordes slap a label on you. For example:

This is standard practice in Godzilla movies, where exchanges like the following are par for the course -

A: Look there!

B: It's a horse!

A: It's enormous!

B: It's Enormohorse!²

Not sure that the etymology behind "Droom" is as easy to pick apart as all that though.

Dinosaur + Doom?

Death + Room(y)?

Droom retains his secrets (rather than broadcasting them).

And then there are those behemoths that are actively sought out rather than enthusiastically avoided. Instead of dashing far away, or staying to stick out one's jaw and defy, these are the monsters we just want to "know" (phnarr). We raise money, we organise, we form expeditions to track 'em down. And then…

A classic "Oh shit…we've succeeded!" moment. The fury on the face of the Yeti (I use the less offensive term) can perhaps be understood when one considers the "abominable" tag that's long attached itself to its good name:

Like the legend itself, the origin of the term "Abominable Snowman" is rather colourful. It began when Mr Henry Newman, a longtime contributor to The Statesman in Calcutta (using the pen name "Kim"), interviewed the porters of the "Everest Reconnaissance expedition" upon their return to Darjeeling. Newman mistranslated the word "metoh" as "filthy" or "dirty", substituting the term "abominable", perhaps out of artistic license.

If Tales to Astonish is anything to go by we'll soon be blaming Newman's "artistic licence" as the starting point for the 1000 year Yeti/Human war.

Fucking eejit (I call him).

1. Pun actually unintentional. [back]
2. Hat-Tip to my brother-in-law. [back]

Though I wish it were otherwise, the vast majority of the images on Cover Browser relate to stories I shall never get the opportunity to read. In some ways, however, this doesn't matter a great deal – for very few of the tales could measure up to the vivid brilliance of their associated covers.

In this they call to mind the diabolically brilliant mendacity of those back page adverts one used to find in American comics of yore. How many children, upon receiving their long-desired X-Ray Specs in the post, must have sobbed & thought (after a cursory examination of the contents), "This is a cruel and terrible world!"? Thus was learned a harsh but essential lesson, namely, that life frequently delights in kicking you in the face. So it goes…

Anyway, here follows a selection of smashing covers.

A classic childhood situation. You're in your bedroom and a knock comes on the door.

"Billy, what are you doing in there?"

"Yes!! God…you've no faith in me. Go away!"

10 minutes later the house is in ruins and your grandparents have been devoured.

"Look, I said I was sorry…OK!"

Though I'm desperate to know what has led Barry to become "The Man Who Hated His Hair!", I respect his privacy enough not to pry further. Doubtless it's something unutterably terrible…perhaps involving demonic dandruff that whispers to him in his sleep ("They're all laughing at your flaky scalp, Barry. Kill them. Kill them all!"). Whatever the case, his set jaw indicates that he's bearing it all with a grim & stoic determination.

Good man, Barry.

Despite having read my fair share of jingoistic war comics, DC's Blitzkrieg ("Searing Battle Sagas of World War 2 As Seen Through Enemy Eyes!") had managed to escape my notice until today. It appears to have only lasted 5 issues – indicating, perhaps, that the appetite for preternaturally evil "Krauts" was on the wane in late-1970s America.¹

"Hugo" is about as unambiguously malevolent a German soldier as one could wish to avoid. Not only does he gleefully riddle some "Tommy" corpses with machine-gun fire ("So what?? It is good target practice!"), but he also takes a dim view of merciful attitudes toward civilians:

Gott in Himmel! What a bastard.

Ah yes, the classic "Mistaken Identity" technique – much used by desperate, lonely stalkers everywhere. Despite dozens of "B-But I'm N-Not Bonnie!" rejections the determined degenerate hopes that someone, someday, will feel his embrace tighten around her waist and think "You know what? Maybe I could be Bonnie!".

P.S: Speaking of comics, there was a most enjoyable Roy of the Rovers piece (by Miguel Delaney) in today's Sunday Tribune. Well-researched, affectionate in tone and unapologetic. A rare thing to see (on such a subject) in d'papers. Oh and he even mentioned this here blog and my discussion of RotR's Matrix-esque "bullet time".

1. It survived well into the 1980s in the UK. [back]

First up we have this rather ferocious looking grappler and his pet lizard (and pet bin):

So far, so bog-standard beefcake? Wait till you see the packaging:

Now I haven't watched professional wrestling for a number of years, mainly because (as Debbie Reynolds says in Singin' in the Rain) "the personalities on the screen just don't impress me". If, however, the WWE was to change its name (once again) to Powered Maniac Bellow, and if the combatants had names like "Superior Wrestle King" (and entered the 'squared circle' accompanied by salamanders & iguanas)¹ then I might be persuaded to revive my youthful enthusiasm for "sports entertainment".

Next on the agenda is a tasty slice of mashing-up and crossing-over. Since the chiddlers love Spider-Man (Marvel), Batman (DC) and Mr. Incredible (er…Pixar), why not happily ignore the fact that they appear to exist in different universes and bang them all into the same 2 Euro package? Something for everyone.

Keen eyes may have noticed that while Spidey appears fairly accurate (two spiders on his chest and a Power-Rangers-ish look notwithstanding), there's something ever so slightly off about the other lads.

Let's start with Bats. He appears to be wearing a pair of very tight blue jeans (Mike Donovan eat your heart out), he's stripped to the waist, he's green, his mask seems to be part of his face/head and he has apples as hands & feet. Other than that, they nailed the character superbly.

What of the pater familias of the Incredible clan? The same apples, the same semi-nakedness, red jeans this time, and…oh yes, he appears to be The Thing.

It's only when you get the boys out of the box, however, that the full extent of their weirdness becomes evident. As the picture below demonstrates, they are the (very cheap) offspring of an unholy union between Stretch Armstrong and Cheestrings:

If you stuck Spidey in the middle it'd be hard not to be reminded of a certain (reasonably well-known) crucifixion scene ("Oh Aunt May! Why have you forsaken me…and let my bedroom out to a lodger for extra cash?").

Continuing in a Christian vein – what unites today's two offerings is their ability to function as funky and affordable Sacred Heart ornaments.

While in Christ's case the light/fire may represent "the transformative power of love", the functions in these manky instances are not as obvious.

"The bewildering power of light"?

"The (handy) paralysing ability of beams?"

"The dependable lure of a cheap gimmick?"

Jesus wept…

1. The lizard is, I imagine, a nod to the legendary Jake "The Snake" Roberts. [back]

Update 23/01/08 – I've emailed a few people who've shown (or casually expressed) interest in FIZZOO! to discuss format, structure, page & word count etc. If anyone else fancies getting involved please email me (or leave a comment below) and I'll forward details on to you. Remember, it's very much an amateur exercise. So come one, come alll.

A new year. A new project.

After sampling anew the girls' comic delights that have been on show here o'er the last few months, Tuppenceworth's luverly Simon McGarr (a recent McDaddy) mailed me with a proposal.

Like me he grew up supplementing his regular comics intake with surreptitious dips into the wonderful worlds of Bunty, Misty, Mandy et al. These dips have left lasting impressions – ensuring that he and I remain committed fans of the "girl comic" and all its conventions.

And so…after some thought (about 10 minutes' worth) we've decided to create FIZZOO! A Girls' Comic…by Boys (and maybe some girls).¹

Fizoo! will (when/if it gets going) be hosted online here, feature 1-2 page collaborations between interested writers and artists, and attempt to offer askew (or even twisted) takes on such girls' comic staples as…gothic horror, schoolgirl misery, orphans, ponies, supernatural companions etc., etc.

Such a venture does, of course, run the risk of wandering into territory covered ad nauseam by Viz. A concerted-ish effort needs, then, to be made to avoid Viz's tried and tested goofy scatologica. In other words, don't expect to see something like…em…"Mavis McGog and her vomiting Dog". Actually, that's pretty funny…so ignore all previous remarks.

The first two stories will be tackled by Simon and myself – with art likely to be supplied by the fabulous "Q". To keep it going we're going to need fresh blood and fresher imaginations. If any of you regular (or irregular) readers fancy having a go at either d'writing or d'illustrating of a story then please leave a message below (or email me…see sidebar).

The aim is to be fairly slavishly faithful to the feel of Bunty, Mandy (et al) but with (as I said) a dirty twist or two.

Let us know what ye think.

P.S: I wrote the above after 2 pints of Guinness, 2 glasses of red wine, a brandy and a hot port…so if I gobble my gook please forgive me.

P. P. S: In other news – Greetings Earthlings has finally been updated.

1. Name subject to the whims of change. [back]