Colour Me Badd

In order to break away from my crippling addiction to making terrible cartoons like the above I took part in the Sunderland Color Run last week*. The idea, which I'm sure even the slowest thinking of you has guessed, is that you run around a circuit while overly enthusiastic young people throw coloured dye at your person.

Awesome Squiggle Words

click to embiggen

Just for shits and giggles I've set myself a challenge. By challenge, I don't mean anything that could lead to personal growth or have any sort of beneficial ramifications. I won't be learning a new language, mastering a musical instrument or forcing myself to talk to new people rather than throw bricks at them. Rather I'll be writing and illustrating a short piece of sequential art, which is basically just an extension of what I do anyway. The narrative functions as a sort of prequel to The Great British Novel I've been trying and failing to write, which is pretty much the only reason the action's set in 1975 (although it does have the benefit of doing away with modern suspense fiction's greatest enemy: the mobile phone). Above is my first effort. You will note that one of the kids wears a bobble hat. This may prove to be very important later on (it won't). I've no title at present, not even a working one, so for now I'll just refer to it as Awesome Squiggle Words*.

I'm not committing to any sort of update schedule as I've played that game before and lost badly, but will be farting them out as and when in between the usual shite. It's highly conceivable that I will be distracted by pretty colours or an old man selling magic beans and thus never finish it, but given that I don't see this running any longer than 30 odd pages, it seems borderline achievable.

Charity run tomorrow. While the godless south basks in a heatwave, it's piddling it down up here. I care not. If necessary, I'll swim to the finish line

Love and Fishes

Dave Denton

* Which, you would assume, would make that the working title. However, for reasons that I am far, far too intelligent and important to go into, you'd be wrong.

Future Imperfect

Hey! Manic Street Preachers have a new album out. What do you mean, you don't care? Of course you do. It's the Manics. The last great literary rock band! They had a number one about the Spanish Civil War! No. Not 'Fernando'. That was Abba. The other one. You still don't care? Well, sod you, chum! It's my blog and I'll write about what I want. Review below.

We Went on Holiday by Mistake

Painting not by me (you can tell because it's good) but by Venus Griffiths

A couple of years ago The Idler released one of those banged out in time for Christmas, read it on the toilet kind of books simply titled Crap Towns. As the name suggests it was basically a compendium of  the less than desirable settlements within Britain accompanied by rants that were - theoretically - amusing, but too often degenerated into former students curling their lips at chavs eating chips instead of, say, foie gras. Sunderland, where I currently hang my hat,was top three. Middlesbrough, where the Denton half of my family hale from, also managed a solid top ten placing. Without wishing to be cruel, while I could argue the case for either town, the placing wasn't particularly surprising, given that they have both become synonymous with northern England's post industrial malaise.  What was surprising was the inclusion of my mother's home town, Cleator Moor, near the bottom of the top fifty. Not that the place is particularly glamorous. It's a small, fairly workaday former industrial town in West Cumbria. I only really know two vaguely interesting facts about the place, beyond  me mam being from there. One: LS Lowery sometimes visited the area. Family legend says that the guy actually sketched me mam as she played in the street and then presented her with the drawing. When me granda John heard this he promptly interpreted it as one of the dirty mac brigade perving on children and proceeded to throw the work of one of the twentieth century's greatest popular artists in the fire with a promise that if he caught the filthy bugger lurking around his kids again he would kick seven shades out of him. I have no idea if all that is true at all, but I very much want it to be. Two: kangol hats  (Y'know, the ones that Samuel L. Jackson wore circa Jackie Brown) were originally made there. Oh, and Three: The town experienced sectarian riots in 1871. So that's three facts about Cleator Moor I know, which isn't, I admit, much of a rebuttal to any accusations of crapness (especially when one of the facts I've offered up is historical religious bigotry).

What I would argue is a tick in the pro Cleator column is the town's setting. The lake district is one of the more beautiful parts of this country. As a kid I never really appreciated it, associating it with long drives, pissing down rain and me grandma's pathological desire to feed me and my siblings with as much stodge as possible. Now, as an adult, I've a much more developed feel of what a special place it is. Mountain, sky and water form a landscape that is serene yet dramatic, natural yet otherworldly. Or, to paraphrase Billy Connolly describing the similarly pretty Scottish Highlands to his children: Sky! Mountains! Nice! Now repeat after me: Ooh! Aaah! Nice!

Me and the better half took advantage of the weather and time off work to visit Keswick mid week. If you've never been it's a postcard pretty town on the Derwent Water and surrounded on all sides by hills and mountains, very touristy, but small enough that it's not obnoxiously so. A very lovely time was spent walking the area and exploring the various shops, museums and galleries in the town. It was not without cost however. My girlfriend, not as given to tromping round as me, ended up with mangled and blistered feet. But we've spoken with the country's top doctors and she will be walking again in time for charity run in a couple of weeks.

The William Wordsworth poem 'I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud' was inspired when, walking along Ullswatter, he rounded a corner and was confronted by thousands of daffodils swaying in the breeze. I had a similar experience when, walking along the Derwent water, I rounded a corner and was confronted by hundreds of ducks, also swaying in the breeze*. Both William and myself, separated by miles and centuries, but linked by a shared moment of pantheistic awe, stopped short, muttered to ourselves 'man, that sure is a lot of daffodils/ducks,' and, filled with a white hot burst of creativity, grabbed our notebooks and bled poetry onto the page. My effort is below.

Puddleduck

I wish I were a little duck

I'd float around - it wouldn't suck

I wouldn't miss those things I'd lack,

'Cause I could swim and fly and quack

I would dine on bread and fishes

Dine on me? I'd be delicious! 

I'm sure you'll agree, it is a masterpiece. You can probably google Wordsworth's effort. Whatevs. I've always been more of a Coleridge man.  Oh, and here's another illustration thingummy from Stitchskin, shorn of any context that might provide it with meaning.

Love and Fishes

Dave Denton

*Do ducks sway? yes. They do. Shut the duck up.