2014: The Year in Burst Blood Vessels

I hope you're wearing your retrospectacles, because things are about to get looked back on. Nostalgia, comin' at ya. Light the prior-fire, because what once was old will be covered anew. 

That's all 100% true, because it's time for:

DiamondBadger's Headscissors Review of 2014

Here are previous entries:

2007
2008
2009

2010

2011

2012

2013

I like to summarise things in categories, particularly at this time of year. I haven't written a blog post for ages, though, and I'm struggling to string sentences together. I've forgotten how to think, how to be engaging, and how to think I'm engaging.

Still, with sections this clearly demarcated, only a fool could stumble. And am I a stumbling fool? My grazed knees tell the story.

I hope you had a lovely Christmas. It's over now, so take those chipolatas out of your hair. You look ridiculous.

Life-Changing Event of 2014

I can't remember anything interesting that happened this year. No holidays, no moving house, no new skills, no new facial hair. 

In last year's version of this, I predicted that I'd put up the mirror we bought. We did put up the mirror, but it took several months and several armed robberies of B&Q. 

I can see myself now.

Podcast of 2014 (category un-retired)

Podcasts have come back with a bang in this household. In fact, 2014 is the Chinese Year of the Podcast. 

I, along with a large chunk of the western world, listened to Serial. I don't have any strong opinions on it, but I thought I should let you know. No strong opinions at all. I certainly didn't kill anybody, if that's what you're thinking. I like Koreans.

Ahaha, a joke about a real-life murder! It's a suitable topic for entertainment! It's an invasion of privacy! It's legitimate journalism! Justice! Respect! Awful people on Reddit! It's not about that! It is about that! Mail Chimp! Jokes about Mail Chimp! Joking about Mail Chimp is an invasion of privacy! Justice! Respect! That dead lawyer's voice! Due process! An acceptable ending! A disgrace! A revelation!

There. That's probably covered it.

My favourite podcast of the year is Comedy Bang Bang. I can't remember when we began listening to it, but we're now so involved in its world and its characters that I can't believe we ever didn't listen to it.

If you haven't listened to it, it's a comedy podcast that loosely takes the form of an interview. Various comedy stars are on there, and there are also people doing characters. It's almost all improvised. There are hundreds of episodes, so it's difficult to know where to start. Maybe a Best Of episode? Or this one. Or anything with Paul F Tompkins or Lauren Lapkus on it.

One of the funniest people on there is Andy Daly, who portrays a wide variety of characters from cowboy poets to German tourists to embodiments of pure evil. Daly is a ridiculously funny improviser. We may hear about him again later.

He was also featured in a spin-off podcast, featuring some of his characters: The Andy Daly Podcast Pilot Project. It makes me laugh. Try this one as a taster.

I've probably been listening to some other ones too. 


TV Programme of 2014

I've been watching a fair bit of television this year, which in the old days would have been something to be ashamed of. Luckily the idiot box is idiot no longer, and is venerated as the highest culture available for consumption (above sculpture, asthma-ballet and every single book).

New Stuff

I am in love with the Zeitgeist, so I was forced to watch True Detective and Fargo (the two must always be compared to each other, and never assessed on their individual merits). I didn't love either of them. True Detective was more ambitious and had higher highs, but also had a fair chunk of stupidity. Fargo was much more consistent but never wowed me. I'll probably watch the second seasons of both, though.

Louis continued to be excellent and unlike anything else on television. Not so many laughs this year, but some compelling drama.

I watched a couple of new animated shows: Rick and Morty and Bojack Horseman. The former was co-created by Dan Harmon, and reminded me of Community in that is was wildly ambitious and imaginative, occasionally superb, but never quite forming a satisfying whole.

I still haven't finished Bojack Horseman yet, but have really been enjoying it. It started off as a pretty funny show with a standard set-up, but as the season goes on, it becomes more rich and emotional and densely serialised. A surprising joy.

Mad Men was also on. I can't remember anything that happened in it.

Oh yes. That nipple.

I don't think they should have split up the final season. I have a short attentio

Old Stuff

We watched the old 80s TV drama The Jewel In The Crown on DVD, and thoroughly enjoyed it. It's one of those classy old British dramas that are full of great character actors and big themes.

I finally got around to watching Twin Peaks on the lovely new Blu-ray box set, and it obsessed me for a month or so. It falls apart a bit in the second season, but the highs are pretty damn high, and it's a fun world in which to immerse oneself. Except when it's absolutely terrifying.

Another diamond I belatedly found waiting for me was Deadwood. I've written about it at length here. It's amazing, and automatically jumps into my top ten TV shows of all time. I haven't made that list, so that statement is probably meaningless.

But my television show of 2014, by a distance is... (trumpet purchase, trumpet lessons, fanfare)...

Review

It's Andy Daly! Remember him, from before?

In this comedy, he plays someone who reviews life experiences. It's a funny premise, and would have been great if it was just him reviewing funny stuff. But there's a strong story arc throughout the season, with lots of fun callbacks and lovely emotional bits. The final episode is one of my favourite single television episodes in some time. I haven't made that list (or even thought about it), so that statement is probably meaningless.

I don't know if it's available in the UK (it's not even out on DVD yet), so find it any way you can. And when it comes out, buy three copies.

Here's an example bit:




Shoe of 2014

I'm going to go with the snow shoe. I always thought snow shoes had to be tennis rackets, but I've taken a different tack and have used an umpire's chair. The snow would have to be pretty deep for it to be ineffective.

Film of 2014

New Stuff

Let's rattle through these. I've basically been left underwhelmed by every film I saw at the cinema this year. That probably comes down to my mindset, rather than the quality of the movies in question. I might just be difficult to please in a public venue.

I might be missing some, but I think the only films I saw in a cinema were Boyhood (impressive, but not as interesting or moving as I'd anticipated), Gone Girl (schlocky, dull, strangely cast), Guardians of the Galaxy (pretty fun, but no more so than the other dozen Marvel movies that have come out in the past five minutes), Captain America: The Winter Soldier (wimped out on its interesting potential, made Black Widow boring again).

I did see a couple of films on Blu-ray that came out in 2014. Under The Skin was great and creepy and just my cup of tea, with some really memorable bits. Only Lovers Left Alive was really fun and really funny, and only occasionally as irritating as its premise suggested.

Old Stuff

I saw The Conformist and McCabe and Mrs Miller for the first time this year, and wrote the words "TOP NOTCH" on the DVD cases (figuratively - one was on Netflix).

Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me (the original film and the Blu-ray 'Missing Pieces') was my favourite film experience of the year.


Moment of 2014

This might be a good time to mention my beloved Southampton Football Club. I've fretted about them at various points over the past year, particularly when we seemed to be selling everyone off, but this season has been fantastic. The manager is great, the players are great, the football, the league position, the Twitter feed - all wonderful. I've needed a lot of cheering up this year, and the Saints have managed it more often that not.

My moment of the year was being at St Mary's to watch us beat Sunderland 8(eight) - 0. If you have to spell the number, you know it was a special occasion.


Music of 2014

Not too many comments here, just some BANGIN' (good) TUNES (song choices).

Bilal - A Love Surreal (this is actually from 2013, but I got the album this year and it's one of my favourites)



Tiny Ruins - Me At The Museum, You In The Wintergardens (single)



clipping. - CLPPNG



The Twilight Sad - Nobody Wants To Be Here And Nobody Wants To Leave 




D'Angelo and The Vanguard - Black Messiah

By doing this so late, I get to include D'Angelo's album on my end of year review! Take that, early December idiots!

The album is fantastic, and my number two record of the year.



My favourite album of the year is... (recalls trumpet skills, fanfare)...


Run The Jewels - Run The Jewels 2

This was number one on Pitchfork's 2014 list, which would normally put me off (I'm insecure and like to seem original). But this is so good, I can't choose anything else. I love Killer Mike, and I liked the first RTJ album, but this was a big leap forward from that one. I've listened to this many times, as loud as my ears will take.





Misunderstanding of 2014

Accidentally bought five hundred ovens for someone who wanted a single fridge.

New Habit of 2014

Heroin. I haven't actually taken any heroin, but I have been thinking about it. I might be addicted to thinking about it. My friends and family took part in an intervention, in which I was advised to "shit or get off the pot". 

So I've stopped thinking about it.
 
Stuffed Animal of 2014

This is a soft crocodile. He was a birthday present from Lucy, and what a present he was! You can't argue with a crocodile.

His name is Snarlin' McFarlane.

Ordeal of 2014

2014

Albert of 2014 (category retired - stupid)

Stand-up of 2014

I haven't seen much stand-up, but I did do a couple of shows this year, One was terrifying and exhausting, And the other was the day before yesterday. It went pretty well. I actually did this material (the nature programme stuff) and, with a safety layer of irony, it went down a treat.


Number of 2014

1.1

Celebrity Sighting of 2014 (category retired until I see someone famous)


Picture of a Vegetable Made in MS Paint of 2014

(Yes, I do this every year)

Odd Celebrity Crush of 2014

I think I fell in love with St Vincent. Her album has been riding high on many end-of-year lists, but I haven't heard it. I don't know any of her music. I don't even really know what she looks like.

But I loved the little "oh" noise she makes in response to a terrible joke at 0:17 of the below clip.



That's it. Just the little noise.

I'm into it.

Language of 2014

Esperantzen.

Tool of 2014

Niall-Gun

Annoyance of 2014

The fonts are all weird. All of them. Not just dingbats or whatever.

Disclaimer of 2014

All opinions are my own. Even yours. I bought them at auction.

Clothing Item of 2014

I bought a soft, dark red, long-sleeved t-shirt. It makes me look like someone from the past and future simultaneously.

Hero of 2014 (category retired - Lucy is permanent holder of the title)

Comic of 2014 (new category!)

Since I started buying comic books again, I've been meaning to add this section to my year-end review. But it's getting late and I just don't have the time for an in-depth analysis. What a shame. I'm sure I would have been very insightful.

Never mind, I'll expand it next time.

In 2014, I've really enjoyed the sci-fi series Saga, the always great Astro City, the hilarious Superior Foes of Spider-Man, and Archer & Armstrong, which is also hilarious, but I can't write that twice (can I?).

But my two favourite series are these:

 Mark Waid and Chris Samnee's amazing Daredevil, which is sadly ending soon. It may be the greatest Daredevil run ever, and that's saying something.

The new Ms Marvel series by G Willow Wilson and Adrian Alphona got a lot of media interest ("A female Muslim hero?!") and there were concerns that it might be a publicity stunt. But it's been fantastic. I love Spider-Man-style teen hero stories (balancing heroism with the restraints of everyday life), and Alphona's artwork is brilliantly unique.

Catchphrase of 2014

We've started referring to hot dogs as "bun-longs". Is that a catchprhase?

Fact of 2014

Roald Dahl wrote the screenplay of Beverly Hills Cop II in my new RPF fan-fiction story.

Best Bit from My Review of 2014

I didn't mention ebola.

Prediction for 2015

Are they going to reboot Scarface? I bet they're going to reboot Scarface.

And it will destroy US diplomatic ties with Cuba. They've only just been re-tied, guys! Don't let this get in the way!

***

Well, that certainly started well.

Just like 2015 will!

Happy New Year, everyone!

Let's all join the same army.

The Serpent & The Sceptre

I was looking at some of my old blog posts today because I am vain. I came across this tweet from a couple of years ago, that I couldn't remember having written:

Scaly baguette fakery; a double-take at a snake in a bakery.

I was impressed with myself, but I didn't know why. It's not quite a poem, and it's not quite a joke. It's more of an extremely short story.

The main thing I like about it is that it doesn't make enough sense to justify its existence. The two parts of the sentence (or "clauses" if you're Tim Allen) have a strange relationship. They both contribute to the evocation of the scenario, but neither explains the other. I've thought about switching them around, but it doesn't make it any better.

A double-take at a snake in a bakery; scaly baguette fakery.

That's no improvement. Though it does make it sound more like a 'red sky at night'-style idiom.

The main thing I like about it is that the rhythm is all awkward. We have "at a" and "in a" in the same sentence. That's not right. It has rhyme and assonance, but not in a pleasant way.

But the main thing I like about it (I just realised that I've already posited two main things I like about it, so I might as well add a third main thing) is that it vividly conjures up the scene. Everything you need to know about the situation is in the one sentence. And the reader can extrapolate all kinds of extra details:

• a customer(?) is shocked to see a reptile in place of his bread
• the baker is complicit
• people have been fooled by the ruse in the past
• was the snake drugged, asleep, or just well trained?
• what species of snake was it (presumably a brown one)?

And what next? Legal action? RSPCA involvement? Has someone already eaten some brie with a hunk of crusty snake?

And WHY WOULD ANYONE DO THIS?

It really is a masterpiece of a tweet.

This may all seem very arrogant, but keep in mind that I didn't remember writing it. So it's basically the work of a stranger. A handsome, handsome stranger.

***

We saw Thor: The Dark World yesterday. It was pretty good. For those of you keeping track, this is the objectively correct list of the Avengers-related Marvel films, from good to bad:

1. Iron Man
2. The Avengers
3. Captain America
4. Thor
5. Thor 2
6. Iron Man 3
7. Iron Man 2
8. The Incredible Hulk

It's inarguable.

I've used bullet points and a numbered list in this blog post. That makes me King of Formatting.

...

Damn. I wanted to include a second numbered list interspersed with non-numbered items, but I couldn't work out a way to do it.

I abdicate the Crown of Formatting.

Plain text is my Wallis Simpson.

***

Here's a good comic by Sean T. Collins & M. Crow. I'm not sure what the etiquette of posting it here would be, so here's just the beginning of it. Read the whole thing here.

As you can see, it's really in tune with my way of thinking.

I'm going to purchase a mug of hot coffee now, and possibly something sweet. If I'm horribly scalded and/or my teeth fall out, I'll let you know in a future edition of Headscissors - The UK's Longest-Running Ironing Web Log.

Holiday 2013 – Days Six, Seven and Eight

We continued our pattern of two days doing nothing, followed by one day of doing too much. Today (day eight), we went on another trip. This one was really nice – we went to good places that were warm and interesting. I didn’t spot any “funny” billboards though, so I’m LIVID. What does a guy gots to do to get blog fuel around heres, huh? (That’s how I talk for the duration of that sentence.)

Luckily, I’ve finished the Stewart Lee book, so my writing style will no longer be so derivative. Or if it is, it will be derivative of something completely different. I’ve just finished Henry James’s The Turn of the Screw, which is an unsettling horror story. I don’t think I can write like him though.

The other thing I’ve been reading is a volume of Jamie Hernandez’s Love and Rockets comic. (His brother Gilbert also does them, but I haven’t got anything by him yet.)

Man, it is a classy comic book. It’s full of strong, complex, predominantly female, characters, beautiful artwork, wrestling, punk rock, Latino slang, sex, dinosaurs, gang violence - all combined to make incredibly funny and often moving stories. Love and Rockets began in the early eighties, and is still going (or at least was until recently). Classy, classy stuff.

I’ve started to use ‘classy’ as a compliment more and more recently. I think the word fell out of fashion when it became associated with monocles and hot tub chandeliers. But it’s time it was reclaimed for things refined, sophisticated, and of high quality. They don’t have to be posh or stuffy.

Love and Rockets is classy.

The three things I’ve recently been describing as classy are:

1)      Love and Rockets

2)      Former AWA wrestling champion Nick Bockwinkel. To be fair, he probably fits the original definition too. He was a star in the seventies and eighties. In character, he was a superior heel. Out of character, he seems like a real gentleman. Classy.

3)      Rickie Lambert, striker for Southampton FC. He's a classy footballer. People who don’t watch him regularly may think he’s just a big, strong lower-league brute. But he has a vision and touch that’s a joy to behold. He can knock the ball down, or hold it up and bring others into play. His passing is incredible. He’s a bit like Dimitar “the Scimitar” Berbatov in that he moves slowly, but everything he does is crafted beautifully. He may not have pace, but he has vision. And he scores goals. And he’s good in the air. And he’s excellent with set-pieces. And he’s never missed a penalty. And Andy Carroll is in the England squad ahead of him.

That was weird. My three things there relate to comics, wrestling and football. These are three of my main interests, but I don’t talk about them much. I suppose I worry that people won’t be interested. But how would that explain the rest of my content? I can’t be writing my usual meaningless waffle because I think people are actually reading.

My other main interest is comedy.

Hey here’s a joke that I sort-of thought about, but gave up before finishing!

My cousin wrote to the police repeatedly, claiming she was being “storked”. They didn’t seem to take her seriously. Which just goes to show – spelling matters. Ironically, she ended up pregnant.

The good thing about the storked/stalked confusion is that it’s a joke which doesn’t work either out loud or written down. The mistake might make sense in some third medium – i.e. telepathy.

Also, why would she write to the police? Also, why wouldn’t she offer any further details? Also, is this a "rape joke"?

As I said, I never finished it. There are a few kinks to work out.

4)      Comedy. Classy.

***

Isn’t it weird that “worship” and “warship” are only one letter different, but are completely different things? And, to a lesser extent, “workshop”.

I think the Turkish air is doing wonders for my ponders. When I’m back in Blighty (which is what I call my kilt), I’m going to grind to a halt. That’s why this blog is such a valuable resource. It’s like a humour reservoir. A reservoir-ha-ha, you might say. In the barren months ahead, I can revisit these blog posts and think “Storked. Yes. There’s something in that.”

P

I've invented a new superhero. I do this quite often. I've built up quite the array of deep, complex, original characters.

You might remember The Human Lull, Ad Infinitum, Paul Instructon, The Khaki Dynamo and the ever-popular Bike Brigade. I'm more prolific than Stan Lee. I haven't managed to turn these into multimillion dollar franchises yet, but that's just because I'm not very good at drawing faces, henchmen, or attention to myself.

The basis is there, though. Upon this foundation, a mighty publishing empire shack may be erected. The shack will be built of ideas, carpeted in money and will contain an en suite bathroom of wonder.

And now a new legend can be added to my impressive pantheon: Ross Phosphorus.

As with the rest of my creations, I haven't really got any specific details to go along with a name. I think he's Scottish, and I think he's quite dour. The dullness of his personality will contrast with his powers, which involve a lot of glow-based attacks.

Apparently, phosphorus compounds are used in a lot of fertilisers. So he can do that too: grow things. Maybe he can grow himself. Though that may be diluting the concept.

His primary villain may or may not be the nefarious Professor Parasol (because of the whole 'blocking out light' thing).

I'm not saying he'll be the new Spider-Man. But there has to be a market there somewhere. It's just so fun to say Ross Phosphorus in a Scottish accent. Go on - try it.

You see?

Kids will be doing that all over the world. But not in Scotland, because they're no longer amused by their own accent. Also the character will be poorly researched and will only include the most obvious Scottish stereotypes (the wearing of onions, and cars).

As I said, I can't draw, but I've produced a decent mock-up. I think you'll get the idea:

 

I'm inspired already.

There are a lot of merchandising options, too. Kids like night-lights and torches and fertiliser. Parents love parasols.

The demographics are literally two.

I'll get working on the first issue. I think his origin will have something to do with phosphorus.

I can smell the money already. Mmm. (By the way, this blog post constitutes a trademark/copyright, so hands off!)

On another day, this post could be eighteen pages long, with a full outline of story arcs and supporting cast (hint: Phosphorusty The Robot).

But this isn't another day. This is this day. On this day, I have nothing more to give.

Genre: A Haphazard Analysis

Let's talk about genre.

Or type about it.

And you don't have to. That was the royal "let's".

I woke up early this morning with the intention of going to a coffee house for a beverage and some reading. But it's raining, so I've talked myself out of it. Therefore, I feel compelled to write a blog post to make up for it. I'm determined to make this early rising worthwhile. The murdering of Comfy Bed Paul needs some serious justification.

I've been thinking about genre recently. I don't know why. Possibly because of my French friend Jean Ruh, who keeps plaguing me with questions. About genre.

It's interesting that certain genres lack credibility in the mainstream. They're seen as silly and childish and frivolous. There is still a stigma attached so science fiction and fantasy, particularly. It seems to be that when people dismiss an entire genre, they're misunderstanding how genre works.

Some genre fiction does have the status of high art, but this relates to how long they've been around. Classical mythology is fantasy fiction. It's ridiculous: full of melodrama and insane characters behaving in incomprehensible ways. It's also brilliant. But Homer is treated with a reverence that, let's say, Farscape is not.

I've never really seen Farscape. My instinct is that it's probably not as good as the Iliad, but I don't know. The point is that there's nothing more inherently infantile about funny looking aliens than crazy gods turning people into trees.

Mary Shelley's Frankenstein is taught in schools. Twilight is not. (I'm probably not helping my argument with these examples)

The Western is a respectable genre. People fighting with guns is more valid than people fighting with wands. Heroes wearing capes are childish. Heroes wearing spurs speak to some kind of deeper human understanding.

Superhero fiction is for children because the characters wear tights. Fantasy fiction is for losers because it has elves in it. Science fiction is for nerds because all of the characters have names beginning with 'Z'.

People are able to understand the function of some genres, but dismiss that same function in others.

I'm guilty of it sometimes. I tend to avoid fantasy stories, with orcs and goblins and mythical realms. I find some of those conventions off-putting. But if I think that, I'm missing the point. Fantasy fiction is not about orcs and elves and amulets that can turn you into a wolf god. It's about... more than that.

The dismissing of genre fiction is nothing more than a selective refusal to understand subtext.

Subtext works in all fiction. A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man isn't just about how annoying school is. The Brothers Karamazov isn't about family dynamics. Batman isn't about a man dressed as a bat punching people.

I mean, those things are part of it. But you can deal with ideas in a number of ways. Genre is just a tool with which to do this.

Genre is a starting point, not an end point.

(I've started to embolden certain sentences to make it seem like this whole thing is well thought-out, rather than a stream-of-consciousness ramble. Has it worked?) 

We realise that with respected genres. A Western isn't just about people with guns and hats shooting each other. It's about man versus nature, or the individual versus society, or the new world versus the old, or gender politics, or racism, or technology, or morality, or religion.

But Star Trek is just stupid men in silly costumes firing lasers at models.

I'm sure this is becoming less true. Lots of people are perfectly comfortable with genre fiction. But there still are some dismissive people out there. You'll be able to recognise them because they're idiots.

That's not to say that there isn't bad genre fiction. But there's bad non-genre fiction too.

As I said, I'm sometimes guilty of dismissing fantasy fiction. But I'm trying not to. I tend to find fantasy writing a bit humourless and stiff. But I like Harry Potter, and that's full of wizards and elves and potions. If it's good, it's good. The genre is just scenery.

There are fantastic characters in genre fiction, and those characters can be interestingly defined and illustrated by using the tools of genre.

If you understand how, say, detective fiction works, you can do a lot with it. It's not just about a detective solving a crime. You can use, undercut, contradict and satirise the conventions of a detective story. And by using that lens, there are an almost infinite number of approaches you can take.

Genre frees you up to deal with issues in a manner beyond the obvious.

Science fiction allows you to literalise abstract ideas. You can spell them out in interesting ways. You can invert reality. You can tackle sensitive subjects by proxy.

The most annoying criticism of fantasy and science fiction is that it's somehow frivolous; that it doesn't deal with the real world. This is, once again, the selective subtext-blindness coming into play. Either that or a chronic lack of imagination.

If you think any story that deals with politics must be set in the 'real' world, with politicians discussing political issues, your world is an incredibly limited one.

Stories about elves and broomsticks that can dance can be far more effective comments on real issues and real people than any 'realistic' drama. I can't think of any right now, but there probably are some.

Sometimes, you can only see the truth by looking at it through a kaleidoscope. That's not technically true, but you can see what I mean.

I've probably been going on about this for too long, fighting straw men. What I'm really trying to get at is: be careful when judging things based on genre. There's more than meets the eye, even if the eye is all fiery and looking at Frodo.

Oh yeah, I remember how I was going to finish this: superhero comics.

I like superhero comics, and they aren't well respected in the mainstream media. It was probably that insensitivity that started me down this road.

What I wanted say was that superhero comics are the best genre.

You might think that's a ridiculous sweeping statement that invalidates my entire argument and haircut. But it's true.

(It might not be true)

The reason for this is that the superhero genre is made up of every other genre in fiction.

You get to have all of your genre-eggs in one basket and eat them too.

Superhero fiction came about as a composite of various other genres. There were originally elements of pulp heroes, detectives, science fiction and fantasy heroes. As times progressed, and the superhero fell in and out of fashion in the late-40s, other forms became popular: horror comics, monster comics, romance comics, war comics.

Some of the best writers and artists plied their trade in these areas, so that when the superheroes re-emerged in the late-50s, a whole glorious genre hodgepodge emerged. Marvel comics like Spider-Man and the Hulk were basically weird 50s monsters converted into heroes.

The fact that most Marvel characters exist in the same fictional universe means that you have traditional superheroes, science fiction characters, aliens, monsters, vampires, characters from (a huge range of) classical mythology, spies, secret agents, wizards, politicians, private detectives, cowboys, newspaper reporters, vigilantes, knights, terrorists, corrupt officials, talking animals, cavemen, corporations, serial killers, bureaucrats, robots, and planets with moustaches, all in the same world.

This means that not only do you have the tools and the scenery of all of those different genres to play with, but that all of those characters can actually interact with each other! You can have a group meeting with a demon, a cowboy, an alien, an FBI agent and a Greek god, all just hanging around drinking coffee.

The superhero genre is the omni-genre.

If you have all of this to play with, and if you take off your subtext-visor, you'll see that there is nothing that can't be tackled with these tools. The entire spectrum of human experience can be explored in an incredible number of different ways.

It's not always like that. I accept it. Sometimes the stories are simplistic. Sometimes a fight between Cigar-Man and the villainous Dr Freud is just a fight between Cigar-Man and the villainous Dr Freud.

But they don't have to be. Fantasy fiction can be Twilight, but it can also be Shakespeare. Naturalistic fiction can The Wire, but it can also be Neighbours.

Superhero stories aren't just for children.

Sometimes they are. But they don't have to be.

I wish some people would stop pretending to misunderstand genre. Citizen Kane would still be a masterpiece if Rosebud was a Klingon.

Possibly. Perhaps.

I'm not good with conclusions.

Unless I

Frank55 Spreads His Wings

I'm not a professional cartoonist. I can't draw, don't have any pens, and have never been paid for anything even remotely worthwhile. But I am a passionate amateur. Is it possible to be a cartoonist if you lack any of the essential skills and equipment?

Yes it is.

Frank55 is a character I created. He's the flagship (and only) character of my creative... boatyard. I've shown you his adventures before: here, here, and a little cameo appearance here.

I've realised that I can't hide these genius needles in the huge haystack of my archive, so have created a place for Frank55 to call his own:

http://frank55is.tumblr.com/

It's on Tumblr. I don't really know how Tumblr works yet. I spent a long time messing around with the settings and background. I'm sure you can tell. It seems pretty fun. I need a new place to waste time - Twitter, Facebook and this blog aren't enough. I find that I'm only distracted for 90% of my waking life. I'm trying to nudge it up to 95%.

I joined Google+ a while ago, but I haven't really spent enough time there. Also, I don't know anyone else who uses it. I've just used it to write a sporadic analysis of the slotted spoon. If anyone would like to add me to their circle, please do. (I think that's the right terminology. I'm not making a inappropriate proposition.) My stage name is 'Paul Fung', which is a letter-for-letter copy of my actual name.

But Tumblr is my chosen platform for Frank55. If you visit the above link, you'll see all of the existing cartoons, plus quotes from experts, plus an unpublished third cartoon (that I apparently didn't post here because I thought it was rubbish). If you'd like to "follow" me on there, please feel "free" to do so.

You can also see the most recent instalment, which I include below, to give you a flavour of my artistry.

Pretty moving, right?

I'm hoping to get some kind of publishing deal. Webcomics are big business now. They're a way for people to show off their talents and reach a wide audience.

I could bring out a book. I might need to be more productive, though. Five cartoons in nearly four years isn't enough. I'll try to step things up.

I might also start a Tumblr page for myself. I can't be cluttering up the Frank55 page with interesting links and photos and videos. It needs to be pure, unadulterated ART.

I hope I'm not spreading myself too thin. This blog, my tweets, and now a "regular" cartoon... I just hope I can maintain my current high standards.

***

Now that's out the way, here is some entertaining content. I give with one hand, and give with the other. And if someone wants to hand me an ice-cream, I have to hold it in the crook of my elbow. I then give that away.

I'm worried that this much generosity will lead to me giving everyone the same clothes off my back, which could lead to infighting and spine pneumonia.

In other news, I was in my work canteen today, and overheard a physics expert at another table describing Stephen Hawking as "fundamentally second-rate". He said it with such conviction, that I've started to believe it. Stupid Hawking.

I suppose Hawking's celebrity must annoy other physicists. He gets all the plaudits, all the glory, all the women, and they have to do the hard graft. It's the same with Prof Brian Cox. That pretty boy is basking in the limelight (analysing the limelight's wavelength and eloquently describing the behaviour of limephotons), when the REAL scientists are wrist deep in gluons and sweating into a beaker.

But I suppose that's the way of the world. It happens in all walks of life. The Queen makes all the headlines, but its the unsung royals that are putting the blue-blood, blue-sweat and crystalline tears into making this nation one of the greatest in Western Europe.

It's just the way it is. Let the Coxes and the Queens and the Hawkingses be the glamour-magnets. There's work to be done. And you can't smash protons together if a paparazzo is staring up your lab skirt.

***

I seem to have mislaid my entertaining content. I'll rummage around and see what I can wrangle for next time.

I hope you enjoy the wedding you might be attending this weekend.

Twice Shy

I'm shy.

I've been shy for as long as I can remember. It's possible that I wasn't shy as a young child. Most babies aren't shy. They cry. They crave attention. They're pompous and needy. So I was probably like that.

But I got shy. I stayed shy.

I don't know why.

My parents aren't particularly shy. I used to think that was because they were adults, and that no adults were shy. But I am now an adult. There's no getting around it. And I'm shy.

My shyness waxes and wanes, I think. You can condition yourself to be less shy by spending more time with people. But the underlying shyness remains. I'm terrible at meeting new people. I give off an awkward energy that makes everyone else uncomfortable.

Unless I'm drunk. Alcohol dampens my shyness. Unless I'm just too drunk to notice it.

That's probably why I don't drink. I need my shyness. It's like a comfort blanket. In an uncertain world, it's good to hold onto something concrete, even if the concrete thing is a statue of me not knowing whether or not to hug a friend.

I think shyness is a genuine psychological condition. But I'm not sure, because I've never had the guts to turn up to any shy support group meetings. It would be awkward. We'd all just sit there for fifty minutes, wondering if we should introduce ourselves, then go home.

Mood

Shy. One of the lesser-recognised no-vowel words. The 'y' is the supply teacher of vowels - stepping in to take over when one of the main vowels is busy.

The 'y' wasn't formally trained in vowelling - but when push comes to shove, and the 'u' is in 'push', and the 'o' and the 'e' are in 'shove' and the 'a' is in 'and', and the 'i' is too egocentric to turn up, you have to call on the 'y'.

The 'y' is a utility player. The Phil Neville of letters.

Sometimes, I'm sure the 'y' questions itself. "Why?", it might ask. "Why not?", it may answer, with a reluctant 'o'.

Listening to

Quite often, I listen to a Frank Black song and wonder why he's not more popular. I think he's probably too prolific. A constant stream of genius is difficult to take on board. The spectacular becomes mundane. He releases albums all the time - always of a high standard.

What's that?

There's an analogy to be made between his output and this blog?

We are both so prolific - him with his albums, me with my hundreds of blog posts - that it's like drowning our audience in treacle and beauty and money?

We should both be much more famous, laden with awards, and respected by the entire planet?

I don't know if I agree with that.

I don't know. I can sort-of see what you're getting at. It does make sense. It...

Yes.

I agree.

We are both geniuses.

And yes, I am even geniuser than him.

...

I'm shy, by the way. I don't know if I mentioned that.


Reading

More Pinker.

People under state control are less likely to die than hunter/gatherers. I think it's because that term is cumbersome. Hunter/gatherers. You don't want a slash in your occupation (unless you're a large-hatted guitarist).

They should combine the terms. Huntatherers. That's much better.

The olden days people would have been less likely to bludgeon their fellow man if they were all huntatherers.

Though perhaps warfare would emerge between the huntatherers and the gunters.

I hate the gunters.

Watching

We watched The Dark Knight again yesterday, this time on Blu-ray. It looked great. I'm still not 100% sold on it, but am probably 96% sold, which is pretty good.

Also, I watched Blackburn vs Bolton. I have nothing interesting to say about that. I wasn't even going to bring it up, but I thought it might be fun as a challenge.

Can I say something interesting about a football match, when a large proportion of my readership don't care about football, and I have no particular interest in either team?

Can I?

No. Not today. But the abbreviated team names did make me think of the Marvel character Black Bolt.

Black Bolt can't speak, because his voice is powerful enough to destroy mountains. Which is cool.

'Black Bolt' is short for 'Blackagar Boltagon'. Which is not.

I might call my son Blackagar.

Blackagar Fung.

They can call him Black Fu for short, though he'll have to learn a racist martial art.

Playing

The Highlander in a confusing nativity play.

Eating

Tenderstem broccoli dipped in Moroccan-topped houmous. Because I worry that I'm not middle class enough.

And some supermarket pepperoni pizza. Because I don't worry that.

Drinking

Jasmine tea.

There's nothing funny about that, but I always tell the truth.

***

What have we learned today?

Firstly, that I'm shy.

Secondly, that I'm arrogant.

Thirdly, that Boltagon is a common surname.

Fourthly, that I always tell the truth.

Fifthly, that I don't always tell the truth.

Remember: believe in yourself. You definitely exist. I've checked.

A Hint of Mustard

SNOW PIG!

I'm running out of ways to begin blog posts. So I just wrote "SNOW PIG!". Seriously. Just look.

I think it's because Lucy and I were watching Frozen Planet and there was a strange snow formation in Antarctica. It looked like a snow pig, but I don't think it could have been. Snow pigs only live in the Northern Hemisphere. Everybody knows that.

It's December. This used to be my favourite month, because it contains both my birthday and Christmas, and I was a shallow child.

But now I'm less shallow. Actually, that's probably not true. I'm probably just shallow in a different way. Or just jaded. Jaded and shallow. Like a scummy puddle.

I'm indifferent about my birthday. Next year I'll be 30, which might make me freak out. And I've begun to actively dislike Christmas. You always become the thing you hate the most. As a child, I hated my future self.

So it's all just early darkness and novelty reindeer socks. December is no longer my favourite month.

On the other hand... December is my favourite month!

Think of all the great stuff! The joy of giving! Eating a hot mince pie on a frosty evening, listening to carol singers, politely declining a cup of mulled wine but enjoying the smell!

Everything is fantastic. Also, I'm really looking forward to the Christmas specials of TV programmes I don't enjoy watching. None of the programmes I like are going to do a Christmas special. But that's mostly because I only watch Fundamentalist Islam TV.

This year's festive line up on FITV looks a bit bleak. It's just [FUNDAMENTALIST ISLAM CLICHÉ 1], [FUNDAMENTALIST ISLAM CLICHÉ 2] and [FUNDAMENTALIST ISLAM CLICHÉ 4].

(The third cliché is too offensive to joke about)

That was an interesting dead-end alley down which to journey. But it's time to move on. 

***

Mood

Saints have just lost, so I should be angry. But West Ham lost, so I'm not too angry. It's Saturday, so I'm not too angry. No-one close to me has died recently, so I'm not too angry. Poverty and starvation exist, so I should be angry. I forgot to order orange juice in our grocery delivery, so I should be angry. I'm wearing trousers, so I should be angry. I'm really good looking, so I'm not too angry.

All in all: I'm fine.

Listening to

This is a nice wintery song. Hmm. My spellcheck doesn't like wintery. It likes wintry. And it doesn't like spellcheck. It likes spell check. My spellcheck is an idiot.

This song threatens to be really boring several times, but then just about rescues itself. I think that's a strength in a song. You don't want to be unequivocally good. Where's the fun in that?

Actually, maybe it is boring.

I was listening to this yesterday. It's much less boring:

Reading

Comics. Yes, I'm a grown man. Yes, I'm reading comics. You can't argue with a bit of Mark Waid's new Daredevil series.

Just try.

Watching

I've been watching the clock tick by as I try to think of what I've been watching. It's the clock on my computer, so it's probably not actually ticking. But it is a representation of passing time in the form of pixel-shapes.

Anyway, I'm watching that. I've also watched my contemporaries pass me by. Through a long lens. They look great.

Flaying

I haven't been flaying anyone. I don't know where you heard that. I haven't been staking out my contemporaries with a long lens, breaking into their houses and removing their skin. Where did you get that idea? It's a serious allegation. Why did you bring it up?

I haven't been doing that. And I resent you suggesting it.

Eating

I had sausage and tomato sandwich today. With mayonnaise. Mayonnaise with a hint of mustard.

That's not enough for me. I don't want people to beat around the mustard bush. I want mustard to be stated clearly and plainly, all over my tongue.

Drinking

Coffee. Delicious coffee. Black as the blood of Jeremy Kyle, but not as riddled with evil. It just has a hint of evil.

***

Sensational!

I've just patted myself on the back. Good work. I certainly did type some words'n'things.

I don't know if this is quite enough for a blog post, so here's some bonus content:

Faster and faster she ran, past the opticians, past the newsagent, past the coffee shop, past the police station, past the charity shop, until finally her legs gave way, and she crumpled in a heap outside Greggs.

Inside the shop, a kindly gentleman bit into his sausage roll. 

Outside the shop, Betty was crying with happiness.

Inside the sausage roll, trouble was afoot.

The Big Idea

You can all relax. I've made the discovery that will make me rich and famous.

It's quite a relief. I've spent years searching for the 'big idea' that will earn me millions.

This blog has proved to be something of a financial cul-de-sac. My naan bread-based takeaway Naan Of The Above never really took off (I don't know how to make naan bread).

But finally - FINALLY - the answer to my prayers is here. This idea with garner a lot of media attention. I'm not saying I'm going to be the next Matt Groening, but I do have a beard and a certain level of genius.

So. Here it is.

The Bike Brigade

They're a group of bicycle-themed superheroes. They fight crime using various bikey powers. Their enemies might be cars or pedestrians or something. Or pollution. I haven't really thought about it.

I'm not 100% sold on the name. 'The Bike Brigade' seems a bit lame. If anyone has any suggestions for a better one, I'll cut you in for six percent of the profits.

But the members of the Brigade (or 'BB' for short) as as impressive as the group name isn't.

Members:

Peddler

Founder, financial backer and driving force of the Bike Brigade. Peddler is a nonagenarian who fought crime in the old days (i.e. pre-1980), riding a penny-farthing. Now too old to make a difference, he's set up a new generation to continue his legacy.

Peddler is bedridden, but is still able to operate complicated pedalo-style machinery with his powerful legs. He's probably avenging something, but no-one really cares what.

The Spokesman

The leader of the group. The Spokesman is an eloquent orator, and has the power to control spokes. He can probably shoot them out of his hands. In fact, his hands are made of spokes. He's classy, professional, but has a certain wry charm. Possible catchphrase: "There's nowt so queer as spokes". (He's a gay Yorkshireman)

Vandalbars

Randal "The Vandal" Bandalbars was a troubled teenager from a broken home. He took his frustrations out on the windows, bus shelters and pensioners of his run-down neighbourhood. But the law finally caught up with him, and put him in the stocks (they still do that in Scotland). But they trapped him between two sets (sets?) of stocks, so his arms were outstretched in a T-shape. Left there too long, his arms are now permanently outstretched - JUST LIKE A PAIR OF HANDLEBARS.

But the punishment changed his outlook. Now he must cope with his arm curse and use his hooligan skills to fight crime, all the time also fighting against his rebellious impulses.

Belle

A beautiful metallic robot, who tinkles delightfully to alert people to her presence. Belle was created by a a mad twee scientist who also created the sleeping kitten grenade and flutterscotch (a cross between butterflies and whisky).

Belle turned on her evil master and joined the Bike Brigade's noble cause (whatever it turns out to be). Belle is relentlessly pleasant, to the point of making her a really dull character. But she sure is sexy!

Saddlesaur

On an early BB mission, one of Peddler's time machines accidentally took them back to prehistoric times. On returning home, they found a stowaway - a dinosaur with a head shaped like a saddle. Taking this as a good omen, Saddlesaur was formally invited to join the team.

Saddlesaur is fast and hugely powerful, but she's not too quick on the uptake. She's a dinosaur. They're not that bright by today's standards.

Tyra

Tyra made her name as the meanest professional wrestler in the Dakotas. With her tyre-style girth, she is nearly invulnerable to pain. Looking for more exciting challenges, she's joined up with the BB to kick arse and grip the road. She's African-American, sassy, and has a furious temper. But, to make sure this isn't too patronising or reductive, she also has a PhD in physics.

(For those keeping track at home, suggesting that a PhD is somehow incongruous with being sassy and black, is itself incredibly offensive. But writing this little disclaimer shows that I'm aware of it, freeing me up with more appalling stereotypes later on.)

Dick Chainey

On a tour of a munitions plant, former US Vice President Dick Cheney masturbated whilst thinking about all the foreigners that would be killed by the weapons all around him. His semen (which possesses demonic properties, not yet understood by medicine) fell through a grate and landed on a harmless inanimate bike chain.

However, the strange properties of Cheney's malevolent fluid somehow fused with the atoms in the chain, granting it sentience. The chain, now able to take humanoid form, is a metallic clone of Cheney, but the purity of the metal keeps the evil locked away. Christening himself Dick Chainey, this new hero uses his chain-based powers to fight evil with the Bike Brigade, all the while keeping the dark, evil, Republican, side of his character hidden from his team-mates.

Headquarters:

A bike shed somewhere.

Transport:

I can't decide if they all combine into a giant bike (Power Rangers-style), or if they ride separate bikes. They can't really have a car, can they? It would muddy the waters of their message (whatever that is).

***

So, what do you think?

I think we should go straight to a Saturday-morning cartoon series. We'll merchandise the HELL out of it (every child in the Western world will want a Dick Chainey action figure).

Also, as it's advocating cycling (important for maintaining a healthy bike physique), we can have them advertised in schools. We can have people dressed as the BB giving talks on bike safety.

Eventually, I'm sure Michael Bay will be interested in a movie. I'm already casting it in my head.

Its great to finally get this out there! I suppose I might be busy buying houses and whatnot with my vast royalties, so if I don't post for a while, that's why. Keep a look out for me in Forbes.

And remember: you heard it here first!

Fall

The leaves are falling. In fact, by the time you read this, they might have already reached the ground.

It's autumn. The season of browns and Halloween. Of parkin and seasonal affective disorder. Of rain and fireworks and kicking a schoolchum's satchel into a wet, mushy heap of tree detritus.

Autumn. Woodsmoke and depression.

Autumn. Fall. Anti-Spring. The Dyening. The grim march to PE. The Early Dark. Winter's seedy step-dad.

Autumn.

The older I get, the more I appreciate the excruciating little things. Like stepping in a scummy puddle. Or a mouse with a chainsaw.

Autumn reminds us that all things must end. Except for the things that don't end. Like Neighbours. Or impermanence.

I remember Bonfire Night or (Pope Conflagration Night as our family called it). You have to remember it. There's that rhyme. The one about that date and how you should remember it. You know that date. "Remember, remember, etc".

All gloves and hot dogs, it were. And terrifying warnings about accidentally burning yourself.

That's autumn to me: terrifying hot dog warnings.

But the seasons are not our enemies. They are our companions. Our contextualisers. Our Contextualiza Doolittles. Like the chiming clock, they keep reminding us who, where and how high we are. Seasons are our compass. Autumn is... West, probably.

I wouldn't want to live on the equator. They don't have the same seasonal patterns. It's wet or dry for them. I wouldn't want that.

I define myself by the four seasons. Baby chick - barbecue - hot dog warning - carrot-nosed whitelump. That's how I remember it.

Wet and dry is nothing. It's not cyclical. It's just two things. You can't have a hot dog warning based on air moisture. You literally need a different barometer.

(For a while, up at the beginning of that last paragraph, I thought the word I was looking for was 'cycular'. Not circular or cyclical - CYCULAR. That's a good word. I will use it once a day from now on.)

So whilst it may seem sad to see what were once fresh green leaves rotting in our gutters and mulch museums, it's really just the reassuring chiming of the clock.

And the chiming lasts forever. Until the planet dies. In about twenty years or so.

***

You wouldn't have thought you could store so much wisdom in such a small brain. But I keep some of it elsewhere. I've made room for wisdom. I don't have any bone marrow. It's all proverbs and life-lessons and Confucius.

Don't worry, I'm going to donate it when I die. Someone dying of wisdom deficiency will inherit all of that epiphanic goo, and it will save them from a life of talking about windscreens and They Think It's All Over.

Carry a Wisdom Donor Card. Seriously. It could change someone's life.

***

I've just had some coffee. So here's the plan. Five minutes to write something here, then I'll call it a day and publish this bitch.

What am I going to write about? I don't know. That's for Mr Coffee Bean to decide.

He's not related to that other Mr Bean. Or Sean Bean. Or Farmer Bean from Fantastic Mr Fox. He's much less incompetent, gruff and lean than those three.

I think (and I'm being prodded by Mr C. Bean here), that humans should evolve blackboard skin and chalk fingers. That's the next big leap in human evolution.

Think of all the stuff you could write on your body! To-do lists, noughts and crosses, humorous slogans. Of course, the tattoo industry would have to adapt. But their artists would still be needed. Not everyone can be great at drawing, even if they were born with chalk fingers.

I know what you're thinking: the chalk would break too easily.

That's true. But perhaps it would only be one finger. And it would regenerate, like a calcite Doctor Who.

("He's not called Dr Who! He's called The Doctor!" says a pedant. Or Doctor Pedant, as I call him.)

I'd like to be able to draw on my body. And you'd get to clean yourself with those fun blackboard erasers. The chalk dust might get a bit much, I suppose. Also, you wouldn't be able to scratch yourself without creating an awful noise.

Maybe we'll lose our ears to compensate.

So, that's it. The next evolutionary leap will be one (or more) chalk fingers, skin like a blackboard and no ears.

That sounds like the premise for an X-Men-like group of superheroes. An advanced new branch of the human race, hated and feared by those whom they try to protect.

It will be a civil rights allegory. But unlike the original X-Men premise using super powers as a metaphor for racial inequality, the Blackboard-Men (we'll come up with a better name later) will use blackboards. Imagine that - someone being judged by the colour of their skin. Raises an interesting point, right?

I think I may have lost my train of thought. And my readership.

Never mind. My five minutes is long gone.

Keep fighting the good fight.

Childhood Stories & The Lost Bear

"Macho Man" Randy Savage died yesterday.

He pretended to punch people for a living,

For a short while his picture was just above Mark E Smith's on the Guardian homepage, but seems to have been replaced by a woman in a blanket or some delicious-looking honey and treacle cake.

Randy Savage was a strange fellow - perhaps the epitome of professional wrestling: intense, flamboyant, ridiculous, athletic, coked-up and utterly enthralling.

Thinking about him got me thinking about some other things. Which is dangerous. I'm not very disciplined in my thoughts (you may have noticed that from reading my blog before).

I don't like to follow sign-posts down a well-trodden woodland track. I get distracted by a blackbird in the distance and barrel off through the trees like a hopped-up Robert Frost: muddy footed, weary legged, my face whipped by branches. I lose not only the path, but the very concept of paths.

But I've thought about what I'm going to write about. This is a rarity for me.

So I'll try to stick to the diffuse points I'm trying to make.

(Hey, isn't it strange that defuse (as in "defuse the bomb") and diffuse (as in "diffuse the situation") come from different etymological roots, but both amount to a quelling of danger? What's that? Oh, right. I'm supposed to be on the path. Sorry.)

Some signposts on the way to my destination are 'the last day at the Dell', 'performance art', childhood imagination, comic books, and the time I was engulfed by a corduroy octopus.

Except the last one isn't true.

Let's get cracking.

[Hold the Cracking. I just want to offer a disclaimer: I've probably covered some of this before. If you're a fanatical Headscissors fan, you may find this frustrating, like a Simpsons nerd enduring a clip-show. Sorry. I'll be back with a new take on cormorants next week.]

Children like stories.

These stories can come from books or television, or they can be invented. But children like the idea of grand, alternate worlds.

The real world is full of rules and barriers. As you grow-up, you're constantly testing your limits, finding out what's possible, and being forced to conform to the reasonable standards of the world.

You don't get the full world of possibility opened up to you until you get older.

If you're reading about a strange fantastical world - the world of Harry Potter, for example - you get the fun of these rules and barriers being broken. The limits of possibility are different. People can fly, monsters exist, and - crucially - children have power.

In fact this power can be realised in a genuine way when children create their own fantastical worlds. If you have an imaginary friend, or a teddy bear, or a doll, or a pliant younger sibling, you can make them do whatever you want.

Maybe not everyone does this to the same extent, but I did it a lot. I created scenarios, characters, extensions of existing books (where I was usually the star, of course).

You create stories, and these stories are interwoven with the real world. They are important to you. Really, genuinely important.

When a child loses their favourite teddy bear isn't just the loss of a toy, it's the loss of a friend, and it's felt totally genuinely. The grief caused by the loss of this toy (whilst it probably won't last as long) is just as keenly felt as the loss of a real person.

And I'm just tickling the edges of the point here - Randy Savage can probably see me in the corner of his ridiculous glasses. But I'm not ready for him yet.

You see, the thing about these stories - and the vivid role that they have in our lives is... we grow up.

Well, we're supposed to.

As you get older and are dealing with real people on a more complex level, it's expected that the invisible friends will disappear for good and the teddy bears will go away into the toy chest.

You've got more important things to deal with. Like SATs. And friends. And motorbikes. And University. And spouses (spice). And mortgages. And The Archers. And then Death.

You don't have time for the world in which you're the world's richest robot musketeer. It's not practical when you're getting your car MOT'd.

But I was never very good at growing up (as I've discussed before). And whilst I have achieved some things that adults do (I have a job, I've built a shelf, I've bought a tie, I've bandaged my own head wounds from falling shelves [with a tie]), I've held on to some of these old worlds. Possibly to an unhealthy extent.

Of course, the joy of the internet is in finding thousands of people who are just like you. And thousands that are much more pathetic.

There are three key worlds that I'm most interested in, and have been (off-and-on) since I was a child. They are comic books, football and professional wrestling.

I think they key similarity between these three worlds is the scope of the narrative. I love big, long, epic stories. I love callbacks and references to earlier events. I love a sequel that refers to an event in the original film, or a last episode of a TV show that mimics the pilot.

I think I like this narrative because it provides a poetry and neatness that real life lacks. There's a justice and a romance to it. It rewards people who have been following the narrative all the way (perhaps because they don't have a girlfriend - who can say?).

And I think comic books, football and pro wrestling are all part of a longer narrative. They have all been continuous from my childhood to now, and started before I was born. They all stitch fictional or semi-fictional events to the real world, or (like a lost teddy bear) allow us to ascribe deep and genuine emotion to stuff that, in real terms, doesn't really matter.

Comic books, and specifically superhero comics, and even more specifically Marvel superhero comics, have been telling stories from the same universe for over seventy years. You can trace the histories of these characters through all that time, through world events, fashion, slang, thousands of writers and artists, various interpretations in different media, all the way up to today.

The Captain America I read about in a comic book each week is the same character that a child was reading about in 1941.

On a personal level, the characters I'm reading about now are the same as the ones I read about when I was seven. Whilst I didn't appreciate the sophistication of (some of) those stories then, I was still in the same narrative world.

So these characters mean something to me. They've been with me when I was in school, when I was a grumpy teenager, when I was a bamboozled university student, and when I'm a bearded blogger.

That continuity, that magic, that romance, that justice, is a constant companion. (Except for those ten years when I stopped reading them, but that ruins my point). These fictional characters and their fictional universe are to entwined with my real life, that they become real to me. And whilst I don't think I've ever had a hugely emotional response to events in comic books, it would be legitimate for me to do that.

Because I have had emotional responses to football. Sports are the more acceptable face of weird fanaticism for the silly things. It's a mainstream passion. People get angry and distraught and elated by football, and it's accepted. Even if it's just a bunch of whiny, overpaid prima donnas kicking a ball around a field.

Football is different of course, in that it isn't written. Its justice and beauty is temperamental and unreliable. It's manufactured by the framework of the game, rather than the determination of the events themselves.

But it has the same nostalgic bond to life. You might see an elderly fan seeing his club win a trophy for the first time ever and he'll have tears in his eyes.

And those tears won't just be happiness and the presentation of a silver cup. It will be tears for his middle-aged self who sat in the same stand with his kids, getting his hopes thwarted. It will be tears for his teenage self, who listened to the game in a French brothel before the war broke out.

It will be tears for the childhood him, who watched the same club take part in the same story - a story you can trace from now, to then, to 1880 - and wanted to see his heroes win the same meaningless trophy.

That's why the emotion is genuine. Comic books are a story. Football is a story. And we've been following it all our lives.

One of my favourite football memories was an example of the game seeming like it was written.

You always get people talking about 'fairytale moments' in sport, which usually just means a rubbish team beating a good team.

But there are times when it seems like it's been written, and your investment in such a frivolous thing is rewarded. It might be an player returning to his old club to score a last minute winner, or someone making amends for a costly mistake.

For me, it was the last game at The Dell.

The Dell was Southampton FCs stadium - the smallest in the Premiership by far - and was a bit of a tiny, cramped, shithole. There were awful trough urinals, our initial seats afforded an almost 5% visibility look at the pitch, and it was great.

We left for a our new (larger, brighter, friendlier, more boring) new ground in 2001. Anyway, in the last game of the season, we were drawing 2-2 with Arsenal and Matthew Le Tissier (idol and waning superstar) came on and scored a great last minute goal. He was the hero and scored the last (competitive) goal in the ground.

Here it is (you can skip to 4:12 to see the goal):



Everyone wanted him to do it. It made sense in terms of the narrative. Our greatest star, giving our home the appropriate send-off. So when it actually happened, it was incredible. It was like living - for just one afternoon - in a film. Even if it was a rubbish Sean Bean film, it was still a film!

It's always good when real life feels like fiction. As long as it's good fiction. I don't want my life to feel like Birds of a Feather.

(I'm wondering if I should go back and put some more jokes in this entry)

So, that's comic books and football. Which brings us to professional wrestling, which is where we started all those many words ago.

Pro wrestling is a weird combination of comic books and football. It has the form of sport, but the predetermined nature of fiction.

If an interest in comic books is about the characters seeming real through lengthy proximity, and football is about ascribing the conventions and attributes of characters to real people, what it wrestling?

It's both of those things and neither of them.

Wrestling has been in my life, more or less, since I was seven years old. It's also part of a story. In this fictional world, these people are really fighting for real championships; they're genuinely hating each other. And this fictional narrative isn't just followed by one company (like comic books), it's adhered to by companies from all over the world, with all their regional variations. It's been going since the early twentieth century, and will probably keep going in one form or another for a long time.

It's as though there's a global agreement to accept the validity of our imaginary friends, place them in the same universe, and totally accept them as real and important and worthy of attention.

Wrestling is a strange thing for me to like. I can see how 70% seems awful and hokey and its morality is hugely dubious. But when it's done right, it's the ideal combination of fiction and reality, preposterousness and real emotion.

I'm sad Randy Savage is dead. There are other wrestling deaths that have affected me more.

I think the reason they seem particularly difficult to take is that the line between the character and the performer is so blurred. My imaginary friend is the same as a real person in the real world with the same name and facial hair.

If we love a particular band, is it the musician or the music that we love? It probably varies. But even if you love the musician, you're not seeing them every week. Wrestlers wrestle all the time (which is why so many of them die young, I suppose). They become a part of my life.

The person playing the wrestler and the character/product he creates are inseparable. Where does Randall Poffo end and Randy Savage begin?

In wrestling, the artist IS the art.

This is probably true of things like ballet and other performance artists too - the human body becomes the canvass on which beautiful images are painted.

So when Randy Savage dies, I'm thinking of the seven-year-old me watching him hit someone with a sceptre, the ten-year-old me watching his gloriously emotional soap-opera reunion with his wife, the teenage me being thrilled by his insanity, or the current-day me watching him on Youtube shouting and emphasising seemingly RANDOM words.

Now that's very selfish. That's the child in me, being sad that his teddy bear was lost.

But there's the not insignificant fact that he was a real man with a real family, who will miss him in a very real way.

Here's a nice little tribute video:



As I said, I wasn't particularly upset about his death, it just sent me down this train of thought, and so I decided to write it down.

I'm quite pleased that I've managed to stick to this path and haven't staggered off the dusty trail to wallow with some hippopotamuses. I'm also glad I didn't abandon the trail as too long, even though it plainly is. And there are probably very few of my readers who are interested enough in comic books, football and wrestling to make this a worthy read.

Oh well. Rest In Peace Mr Savage.

As a tribute, I'll talk like you ALL day, yeah.