Proper Charlies

Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries

Like many people I've spent the last week utterly horrified by events in Paris. There's something about the Charlie Hebdo attacks, even when set against the atrocity exhibition that is the modern world, that was particularly ugly and hateful. The freedom to hold contrary opinions, to pick holes in the ideologies of pompous demagogues and to generally take the piss is an important one. There's not really a hell of a lot I can do in the face of the men with guns, but, hey, at least I can think what I want, and it's this that the gunmen were attacking last week. Unsurprisingly in the aftermath we've had the usual bell ends sounding off about how the best way to combat this sort of horror is to undermine our own rights, ramp up tensions with those of our countrymen who happen to be Muslim and generally do everything that the people who carried out the crimes want us to do in order to further their cause. Thankfully the vast majority of people seem uninterested in drinking that particular kool aid and have decided that the appropriate response is to celebrate our freedom of speech and to remember that our enemies may be murderers and war criminals, but they are also knob-heads who must be pointed and laughed at.

As well as being free to make points that may offend we are also free to make points that are incoherent and poorly presented, hence the above cartoon. I'm not sure if it works. It kinda hinges on your familiarity with Monty Python and the Holy Grail, and the figures are a bit on the wee side to be recognisable. While the above is a bit crap cartoonists from around the world have produced some brilliant work in response to the attack on, what is after all, their profession. (unless your Paul Thomas at the Daily Express, in which case the most pressing story in the world last week was energy bills. Ho-hum).

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Away from the world of current events I went to the Life museum in Newcastle the other day. I can imagine it's a fantastic place to go if your ten. unfortunately I'm a full grown man and was thus underwhelmed. I blame my sister, whose idea it was. Unfortunately she's having a bad time of it at the minute so I can't really shout at her and must content myself with shitty looks and slow shakes of the head. I'm also now eleven days alcohol free. I've lost weight, am breathing better and can now usually remember how I got to bed. You can still sponsor me, of course, because God knows that self improvement is no longer a good enough reason to do anything, but if you don't, please pay it forward in some way, such as buying a big issue or petting a particularly glum looking dog.

I also finished another page of Rag and Bone, so go me.

Love and Fishes

Dave Denton

Ring in the New

Happy 2015. I hope everyone reading this had a great new years, because God knows New Years Eve has never been a disappointment for anyone. 

Me and the better half went to Tynemouth the other week, which is a pretty wee seaside village in North Tyneside. A nice day was had wandering around the market and the ruins of the priory, which also doubled as an anti aircraft installation back in the day. The only dampener was one rather bizarre incident when me and wor lass lass were sat waiting for a meal when a family of six came in, saw that there were no free seats and, rather than walk the ten yards to the next establishment, promptly sat down at our table. They sat with their backs to us and made no attempt to acknowledge our existence us or the weirdness of the situation, everybody that is except the children, who had obviously not got the memo and stared at us with the slack jawed intensity that only pre schoolers can summon. We were eventually moved to another table by the - very apologetic - bar-staff at which point one of the invading party decided.that we did actually exist and offered the limpest of apologies. Fear not anonymous table usurpers, I have now moved on, but I must warn you that as far as wor lass is concerned, you have made an enemy for life. 

We also went to Middlesbrough the other day, because apparently we are the sort of couple who go on day trips to Middlesbrough on purpose. One of the reasons for this was so we could visit the local Institute of Modern Art, which turned out to be a silly reason as the bugger was shut. The other reason was to have a wander around Middlehaven and hopefully scratch the girlfriend's photography itch. 

For those who don't know, Middlehaven is a large redevelopment area on the banks of the Tees. Middlehaven was for a long time, very literally, on the wrong side of the tracks (or "over the border" as the Smoggies would have it), home to the town's red light district and the skeletons of industries which were, at one point, world class. There were plans on the table to completely revamp the whole area in one big bang. Unfortunately the double whammy of the credit crunch hit and Tory led austerity meant that that went to shit and the local authority have had to move the whole thing forward piecemeal.  As such, at the time of writing, approximately 5% of the area is made up of restored classic buildings, 5% derelict buildings that are beyond saving and 15% shiny new office and college buildings. The remaining 75% is made up of deserted brownfield land with the wind whistling mournfully over it. Maybe some day they'll finish it and it'll be super smashing great, but at present the whole area stands as slightly mournful testament to the scale of the challenge facing many areas in the north

I've been busy with a distance learning course over the past couple of weeks so haven't done as much drawing as I'd like. Below's a panel from Rag and Bone because finishing the thing is as near as I've gotten to a new year's resolution (that and for the killing to finally stop).

I'm also still doing stupid Dryathalon thing. I spend my evenings stood at my window, watching the local winos roll around in their own filth, shouting incoherently at the seagulls, and I am green with envy. Any donation will, of course be gratefully received, but I am happy to accept a high five in lieu  of money.

Love and Fishes

Dave Denton

All the Way There and Back Again

The Hobbit: The Battle of Five Armies Review

Given that Peter Jackson's adaptations of Lord of the Rings made all the money, it was inevitable New Line would make an adaptation of The Hobbit, they would have been financially irresponsible not to.  Also, given that The Hobbit is vastly different in tone, register and structure to the Ring trilogy it was inevitable that substantial changes were needed to make it fit in with the earlier films. And, given that puffing up a children's bed time story to the size of a Beowulf-esque epic is something of a big ask, you could also argue that it was inevitable that the new films would suffer in comparison to Jackson's earlier efforts.

This was most true of the first Hobbit film, where the boom and blare of Jackon's additions about falling civilisations and quests for revenge - copy pasted from the appendices - clanged like a motherfucker when set against the sing song pitter patter of Tolkien's original narrative. The second film was a definite improvement, settling into a more consistent tone, even if the action was that little bit too cartoony, undermining any sense of threat. The third movie is all crescendo; a two hour fight scene relying on the previous two films to provide it with context and substance

Luckily it's a good fight scene. There's an actual feeling of weight and peril to proceedings that was missing from the previous instalments (assuming that is, your not Legolas - in which case the laws of physics are your bitch). As for the few quiet bits, the stand off outside the gates of Erebor and Thorin's tap dance along the edge of sanity are well handled, and Martin Freeman remains the best Bilbo Baggins they could have possibly cast, even if here, as in the books, he's more or less run out of things to do at this point. Also there are war goats. I now want a war goat. But there's so little story here that it's hard to justify it being its own film and even at two and a half hours it feels too long. It's difficult to view The Battle of the Five Armies as its own thing, as opposed to the final third of  a larger story. That's fine. That's exactly what it is. But it presupposes a lot of heavy lifting in the earlier films which was simply not present.

In a broad sense all the changes that Jackson introduced are clever or at least understandable, creating dynamics and threads that run through all three films and going at least partway to reduce the gratuitous use of deus ex machina employed in the book. But it's when it comes to the execution that the adaptation sometimes sags. Take the much derided dwarf/elf romance, which didn't fall flat because the idea itself was stupid. On the contrary I thought it personalised the ongoing conflict, helped distinguish important characters within a large cast, created new dramatic tensions within the group and raised the stakes for the final confrontation. The reason it didn't work was that it was dealt with in an entirely perfunctory way, making it feel forced and unbelievable. Similarly anyone who's read or seen the supplementary material the film makers put out knows the individual dwarfs are all reasonably well formed characters, with a culture that a great deal of work had been spent into realising. It's just that almost none of that made it onto the screen, the preference instead being for overlong action sequences, comedy mugging and episodic scenes from the book that could have easily been cut, resulting in a amorphous, beardy mush.

I'm ultimately fond of The Hobbit films. Even putting my affection for the original novel to one side, Jackson's films have always been at least fun and now we've seen the trilogy in full it's possible to make out the shape of something very worthwhile. Whether that something would bear that much resemblance to its source is debatable, but it's hard to shake the suspicion that a ruthless, two film cut that included more character development while sheering the bloat off some of the spectacle wouldn't merely be good, but excellent.

                                                                                                                                                  

Anyone remember the scene in Candyman where Virginia Madsen wakes up in a strange flat, no recollection of how she got there, covered in the blood of a dog that it appears she's beheaded, some wifey screaming in the corner and a small baby missing. Yeah, well, after a not dissimilar Friday night I've decided to knock alcohol on the head for January. No sooner had I made this decision than an advert in my local bus shelter informed me that this was a thing that Cancer Research UK is encouraging people to do. While I am generally speaking pro cancer, I understand that a lot of people aren't and figured I might as well try and raise some money for charity while I'm giving my liver a stay of execution. If you feel inclined to donate you can find my Just Giving page by clicking the following link

I wont be posting next week due to festivities so I'll wish you Merry Christmas - unless you don't celebrate it, in which case Merry Thursday - and I'll resume my witless rambles in the new year

Love and Fishes

Dave Denton

The Walrus Loves the Carpenter

The moon was shining on the sea,

Shining bright and white:

The walrus and the carpenter

Sat out in the moonlight

And this was very odd, because

it wasn't even night.

Carpenter licked his fingers clean,

And tossed an oyster shell

Now that their repast was now complete

His face, it suddenly fell.

Those oysters, they had trusted them,

And they'd not been treated well

"Walrus," he said, into his chest,

sniffing away a tear

"We did those shellfish a great wrong

that they can't forgive, I fear

As now they're stuck inside our guts,

Are we the bad guys here?"

Walrus's flipper reached behind

And gave his back a pat

"My joiner friend, there is no need

To feel like you're a rat.

We were hungry. They taste good.

And that's the end of that."

He lifted up the chippy's chin

and looked into his eyes

"Don't be sad', the Walrus breathed

And to Carpenter's surpise,

Butterflies swirled inside his tum

and something began to rise

His face and loins were burning hot,

Carpenter suddenly knew

That oysters are aphrodisiacs

And he'd had thirty two

He put his mouth to Walrus's

At which point things got blue.

I'll spare you the gory details

of all things done and said

For walrus/man love is not a thing

you want inside your head

Though I believe you can find such things

Out there on the web.

They lay there panting, side by side

After the deed was done,

For sex is hard when your new lover

Outweighs you by a tonne

But thanks to lube and harnesses

They'd had a lot of fun.

"I can't believe that happened,"

Carpenter happily sighed

"But I'm glad it did as now it means,

I've no reason now to hide

That I love an Artic mammal."

"That's great," the Walrus lied

You see, what he was thinking,

But didn't want to say,

Was that he felt himself a player.

Monogamy? No way!

He'd just hoped to scratch an itch,

And get his end away.

"Oh Wally," said the Carpenter,

"I think that you're the one.

Do you think our parents will understand?"

But answer came there none-

And this was scarcely odd, because

That fucker, he had gone.

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With all due apologies to the estate of Lewis Carroll. This is apparently what I do with my spare time.

Love and Fishes

Dave Denton

Too Many Sandwiches

I'm feeling slightly delicate so I'll endeavour to keep this short. The reason for this is that it was my youngest brother's kinda sorta 21st last night. His actual birthday was back in November, but we were unable to celebrate it back then as he was busy running around the countryside, covered in mud and leaves attempting to defeat imaginary enemies (Just to clarify, this was in his capacity as a guardsman in the Scots Guards, not an escaped mental patient). The back room of the local pub was rented and invites sent to all relevant friends and family. Unfortunately of the fortyish people we were expecting only about a dozen showed up, which was a bit of a shitter, but I've always been of the opinion that if you need the fingers of two hands to count the people who are important to you then you're exceptionally blessed. It also meant that the buffet was essentially untouched. So if anyone's in the mood for 150 slightly stale sausage roles, pop round mine and I'll hit you up.

Her majesty's finest eventually left for the more substantial delights of nearby Newcastle, where by all accounts a good time was had until two of our kid's mates decided to start knocking lumps off one another. The reason we were given for this was that one lad fell over, so the other tried to help him up and got a fist in the face for his efforts. I'll admit that doesn't make a whole lot of sense to me, so  I think a better explanation would be that some people are arseholes when they've had a skinful, While me and the missus were lost in the blissful ignorance of sleep, my sister had to deal with the fall out when everyone returned home, spending an hour and a half in the local A & E with the fight's loser, waiting to get his lips sewn back onto his face. I came down this morning to find me dad's doorstep splattered in vomit and blood, while his kitchen floor was covered in slowly defrosting peas (because to the drunken mind Peas = Medicine). Happily everybody was friends again, although the young lad who'd had his 'tache slapped looked in a sorry state. 

Went to see The Lake Poets earlier in the week. Unfortunately we had to leave early so we only caught a couple of songs, not enough were I could really formulate an opinion. However he (despite the plural in the name, The Lake Poets consists of one guy) seems good in a sort of Damien Rice-y type way. He was certainly leagues ahead of the two support acts, who were both shite.

Also at the top and bottom of the post you have Christmas doodlage. Tis the season and all that..

Love and Fishes

Dave Denton

Lost in the Supermarket

I'm cool with Blue Monday and Orange Wednesday's, but when did Black Friday become a thing over here?  I don't think I'd ever heard of it till a few years ago and now the news has been filled with images of people from around the country fighting, shouting and making complete tits of themselves as they clamber over one another in an effort to get their sweaty mitts on that most coveted of all possessions: shiny stuff. I'm not saying that England is an especially classy place (despite the top hat and monacle stereotype, we were, at the end of the day, founded by a viking pimping out his daughter to a Welshman, not to mention all that barging into other countries and taking their stuff that we did) but I seem to remember that we at least attempted to put up a decorous front. It's a theory of mine that we're currently reliving the 1980's; The Tories are in power and telling everyone that the poor and unemployed are somehow the enemy within, a new fringe party is winning by elections and talking bollocks about forming the next government, the US is being challenged internationally by a rising Asian power, pop music is largely wank and, most distressingly, there appears to be a general consensus within the wider culture that greed and avaristic self interest are not only permissible, but somehow admirable.  Couple that with the peculiar shamelessness that seems to be the internet age's gift to the national psyche and you get scenes like on Friday, with red faced, sweaty men drop kicking little old ladies in order get their mitts on a plasma TV with 20% off (I may be exagerating a bit there, but - dammit - the point still stands),

It's even more depressing as, unlike the US, we don't even have the accompanying holiday that provides some justification for the ensuing orgy of consumerism. I've been lucky enough in the past to have been invited to spend Thanksgivings with Americans of the homesick expat variety and it's always struck me as a nice idea for a holiday. Granted there's not much niceness in how things really played out between natives Americans and white settlers (and apologies for being approximately the 9 billionth person to make that observation), but there's a lot to be said for a day when you get together with your friends and loved ones and acknowledge that given the endless suffering and bigotry that has comprised the human experience for most of history, we're lucky even - dare I say it - well jammy to have been in this part of the world and in this era. Plus you get to eat until you slip into a food coma, which I thoroughly approve of, even if my waistline does not.

So yeah, when I'm in charge - and God willing it shouldn't be long now - I would instate a British Thanksgiving because if the Canadians can do it, so can we. I would also exile all minor royals, ban incorrect use of the word 'literally', commission a third series of Spaced and move the capital somewhere a bit more central, like Barnsley. So follow me to a brighter tomorrow!

In the interim I've finished another page of Rag and Bone (below). Spread the word. The people must know.

Love and Fishes

Dave Denton

The Inevitable Return of the Great White Dope

First off an apology for my recent inactivity. I had a post ready to go when my lap top let out a sad little whine, like a puppy at the vets, and then just upped and died. I tried shouting at it, prodding it with a stick and rubbing it with Vicks Vaporub, but nothing would coax it back into life. I have therefore spent the past fortnight reliving the dark and terrible era known as 2003, before I had regular internet access and had to nothing to distract myself  with except a hoop and stick and a water damaged porn mag that I found in a ditch. Luckily the computer doctor man was able to do dark science at it and it's now working fine, although the work I did beforehand must now be written off as one of the great lost works of the 21st century. Luckily my readership is largely hypothetical so this isn't much of an issue, but the lesson here - and this is really something that should be taught in schools - is save your shit regularly. 

While waiting  in digital exile I've contented myself with wandering around the real world, which is colder and offers less instant gratification. It's now officially Christmas here even though it's only fucking November and me and wor lass toddled off to see Sunderland's Christmas light's being switched on, mainly because the better half has many fond memories of the accompanying fireworks display. This year the switch was being thrown by no lesser a personage than Faye Tozer from Steps. If anybody reading this is unfamiliar with Steps or their work, think of everything that rock and roll embodies; the sex, the wit, the rebellion. Now think of the exact opposite of that. They were a group tailor made for anyone who would have loved the Bee Gees if only they weren't so damn raunchy and as such were a big hit with the pre-tween girl demographic. Unfortunately, given that the group have been inactive for about a decade and those pre-tweens have now grown up, their current potential fanbase stands at around zero (give or take a 5% margin of error). They also had a guy in the group who shortened his name to 'H' - despite the fact that his actual name is Ian Watkins - which makes me unaccountably angry. Still, Newcastle had to make do with a guy dressed up as Shrek and Durham could only rustle up one of the Chuckle Brother's hairdresser so I suppose you take what you can get. In addition to Ms Tozer we also had PC Plum from Balomory, a swing band whose name I've already forgotten, a children's choir that just stood there silently, swaying awkwardly and some bell end from local radio who could not get over the apparently inherent hilarity of the local theatre hiring actors with dwarfism for this year's production of Snow White. As with the recent illuminations, it wasn't really our thing, but we were there for fireworks, goddamit, and if that meant twiddling our thumbs through an hour of sub Cbeebies wank then so be it

Unfortunately the whimsical joy of big fuck off explosions was slightly undermined by the setting. The whole shebang took place on the site of a recently demolished leisure centre. You can kinda see the logic behind it: the city's recently acquired a large green space right in the middle of town and when you've got one of those you might as well use it for this sort of thing. Unfortunately they had made one major oversight - which I like to think only became apparent to the organisers the moment the switch was thrown - in that the green is surrounded by tall buildings on all sides. We therefore didn't so much see the fireworks as hear them. Luckily there's a path through to the a space adjacent to the launch site. Unluckily, due to ongoing building work, this path is currently only wide enough to let three people walk abreast which, given the many thousands of mackems in attendance, meant the route almost immediately bottlenecked and became impassable. It's a small wonder that nobody was hurt.

Regardless, the distant booms and occasional flash acted as a starting pistol for the run up to Christmas, that most drawn  out and tiring period of the year. I've had one, fairly abortive, attempt at starting my Christmas shopping with a day out in Newcastle. I didn't manage to find anything, but I had a sub par steak sandwich and got to see the English Defence League acting like a bunch of miserable, deluded, violent, alcoholic fuckwits. So there's that. I'm currently debating utilising the gift buying strategy of my sainted and much missed mother, wherein I just buy the first thing that I see and then retroactively decide who the gift is for. So if everybody in my  life gets an egg whisk this year, don't say I didn't warn you

The above image is another illustration for Black Hackerty's Windmill, featuring the titular windmill. As before I've added it to the extract I've got up elsewhere on the blog. Also below is a new page for Rag and Bone which continues to inch forward. Due to my recent adventures in analogue I've got a few page lined and ready to colour (although I personally find that by far the most laborious stage). It'll be in double figures before I know it.

Love and Fishes

Dave Denton