Stupid man

As I think I've said before, I *loved* Superman Returns. I saw it again last week with Sweatband, and even she loved it. Although in hindsight I think she loved Superman 'Brandon Routh' rather more than she loved Superman 'the film.'

Anyway, there I was today, sitting at my computer flicking through the Marks and Spencer autumn/winter 2006 catalogue that I'd picked up in Kingston today when actually I should've been writing an article about the Delphic Expanse (it's a region of space in Star Trek: Enterprise, if you really needed to know), and what do I see? I'll tell you what I saw - it was the Superman duvet I had as a kid!

Damn the M&S website for not listing it yet, so you'll have to make do with this crappy pic taken of the catalogue.


I did take one where I was pointing a finger at it, but that just looked like someone was dangling a big pee-pee into the room which, quite frankly, looked a bit strange. Anyway, as you can see, the duvet has a big picture of Superman on it, flying with one arm held out in front of him.

As things like this are wont to do, the image sent me into some sort of nostalgia spiral and flashes from the past hit me like they do to someone who has amnesia in a movie when they start to have flashbacks of the life they've forgotten. Unlike in the movies, I did not recall my forgotten life as a government trained ninja assassin. But it was almost as good - I can remember being very young and laying over Superman in the same position as he appeared on the duvet with the vague hope that my Mum would walk into my room and say "ooo, where's Tim? The only thing I can see is Superman on the duvet."

Unfortunately, my Mum is not a woman to be easily fooled, and what she'd usually say is "Dave, I think our youngest son is a bit special."

So anyway, flashing back to the present, what I really want to know is this: why aren't Marks and Spencer selling a Superman duvet for a double bed?

It's discrimination, I tells ya!

Oh, deer…

One of my fondest childhood memories was our sunday afternoon family walks. Writing it out like that makes it sound dull, but it wasn't. Every sunday, we'd pull on our wellies and head off to one of West London's finest parks, where quite often Simon and I would recreate the lightsabre fights from Star Wars with big sticks, but as he was older and his sticks were invariably bigger, it often ended in tears.

Erm…

Sometimes it was Windsor Great Park where Simon and I would race ahead of Mum and Dad upto the monument at the hill overlooking Windsor Castle. Then everyone would laugh at me because I couldn't say 'monument' properly; monlement? Monnement? Moonlement?

Screw it.

Anyway, other times we'd go to Virginia Gardens where we'd marvel at the totem poll. One time we saw Prince Charles on the outskirts of the polo field. We passed so close to him that Simon pondered whether he could get away with slapping him on the arse and running away. I reckon the security guys might've popped a cap in him, but it might've been worth it just for laffs. Maybe if he'd used his lightsabre?

And then there was the time - the one and only time - that we went to Richmond Park. Richmond Park is, for those who don't know, the largest Royal Park in London, and home to 650 deer. Which has always been a little troubling to me, because in rutting season those deer can get bloody viscious. Seriously, if you get yo' ass anywhere near a man-deer when it's rutting season, prepare to be on the receiving end of a pointy antler. And if you're really unlucky it might even turkey slap you.

Where was I?

Oh yes, the one and only family expedition to Richmond Park. I was, I think, about four. We parked up (I wasn't driving, mind), and Dad opened the car door. I hopped out, and as Mum got her coat out of the boot, I bent over and scooped something off the ground. I turned towards Mum and Dad, held out my hand, and opened it to reveal a handful of what appeared to be raisins, but what I expertly identified as "deer poo!"

One minute later I was sitting in the back seat of the car watching the scenary go by and left to wonder why we were going home so soon, and why my hand smelled so funky?

Coming up to date, Sweatband and I are re-teaming for some more sporty-related, erm, things in the next few months. First up in September is the annual Richmond to Windsor bike ride. This'll be my fourth, and Sweatband's first. Despite her hardcore extreme sports exterior, she's let me know that she's shitting it, but I reckon she'll be fine. We're planning on a few training rides, and Sweatband is eager to do one in Richmond Park for some reason.

Then, in October, we're doing another 10k run - this time round the grounds of Hampton Court Palace (Ooo - la-dee-da!) and the adjoining Home Park.

Now... Richmond Park and Home Park - what do they have in common? Hmmm… Oh! Deer!

Yes, they're both full of deer. And I've got a horrible feeling that October is rutting season. Me - sweaty and red-faced, and hundreds of randy deer.

I think Sweatband is trying to kill me.

Kids today - tsk!

I've just been watching Supernanny. Well, actually it was Supernanny US, where the victi- I mean parents are really nice, contrasting with the UK version where the clearly down-trodden parents usually say things like "little Billy ain't gonna f-beeeep-ing listen to that, you silly cow," while the mum can clearly be seen to think that yes, maybe 250 quid down the clinic might've been money well spent around the three month mark...

Fortunately, while the parents were all smiles, bouffant hair, shoulder pads, and chiselled features, the kids were still little shits who swore like troopers. Hurrah!

Anyway, one of Supernanny's best ideas for the UK version was the naughty step. If your kid misbehaves, drag 'em to the foot of the stairs and make 'em bloody well sit there, all snot and tears until they stop hyperventilating and either a) pass out; b) apologise; c) raze the house to the ground - in which case I expect Supernanny would get uber-biblical and make them sweep the ashes into bin bags.

I was fascinated to note, however, that for Supernanny US, Supernanny has replaced the stairs with a chill out beanbag. Now it's quite possible that the oppulant staircase of the mansion this particular family lived in doesn't have quite the same effect as a council house in Leeds - but beanbags?!

Kids have never had it so good! Geez! If I thought I could go and chill out on a bear-sized beanbag just for flinging some poo at my brother I'd damn well do it.

I've been looking for an excuse to put me feet up.

A brave new world

Has anyone noticed that society is plagued by a bizarre, aggresive sub-species these days? Yes, chavs are everywhere (shudder).

But not to fear - Marcosy and I have developed a cunning plan!

My friends - I present to you CHAVTOPIA!

Imagine a place where chav culture is allowed to flourish as nature dictates it should, where chavvy children punch each other's teeth out while a Burberry flag flutters in the breeze, and chav dads hum the national anthem (Lily Allen's Smile or something by The Streets - I can't make my mind up...) while rolling biftas without any damned interfering policemen to stop them. Saves getting a job, huh?

Chav families stroll along the streets on their way to Argos to buy more cheap jewelry or have another tattoo done ("I fink I'll 'ave one that says 'angel'"), chav mum and her 12-year old chav daughter (pushing her own newborn fledgling chav in a pram) both a glorious sight in their off-white boob-tubes hanging by their waists, with their greasy locks pulled into a Croydon facelift so taut that it leaves you speechless.

Want to see the sights of Chavtopia by car? Just break into whichever one takes your fancy; after all - who the hell's gonna stop ya!?

So what do you think? Chavtopia - a brave new world where these fascinating people are able to develop without the interference of normal polite people who work for a living and obey the law?

OK, yes, I basically mean we should dump all the chavs on a desert island and let them fight it out on their own.

I still think it's a great plan though!

Oops

I'm a big fan of Freudian slips (and before anyone asks, no, it's not a new type of underwear).

Today, however, I almost made a Freudian slip that would either have made everyone laugh (it certainly managed that in the office), left a spanish lady utterly confused, or ended my career.

You see, I'm dealing with a spanish company on a new project I'm working on, and today I emailed the lady in charge at their end to introduce myself. In emails such as this I often use the phrase "I'm looking forward to working with you," because it shows a bit of enthusiasm on my part and makes the other person feel special (not in the window-licker sense of the word).

But today, for some inexplicable reason, I wrote "I'm looking forward to porking you," which I think you'll agree is a tad forward; I mean, usually I'd at least buy her dinner. Or a McDonald's Happy Meal.

Anyway, what that says about my thought processes today I don't know, but thank god I proof-read my emails.

Shameless plug

Following on from my post showing some of the pages from an unpublished comic by me and me ol' pal Graham, there's a new link just over there in the link column - LOOK!

CLICK HERE! OR OVER THERE!!

Go on - click it. I dare you. That's everything that Graham and I (mainly Graham - he draws all the purty pictures!) did for the proposal to Dark Horse comics. We never heard back from them (insert unhappy smiley emoticon).

So if you work for a comics company and you like it - email me! Let's talk!

(And if anyone wants to read the original short story I wrote that we adapted for the comic drop me a line - I'm happy to email it around!)

Finally, supermassive big thanks to Skillz for putting the page together for us - I salute you Sir!

Lily Allen Vs Tony the Tiger

I'm not being snobbish, but I simply am not a fan of Lily Allen. A lot of people are loving her song 'Smile,' which is fine - it's just not my cup of tea (sorry). Unfortunately it's also one of those songs that gets stuck in your head VERY EASILY.

Marcosy is helping out at work at the moment, and somehow he's worked out that I don't like Lily Allen. And this has lead to him standing behind me and quitely singing:
"at first when I see you crrrrryy
it makes me smiiiiiiile
yeah it makes me smiiiiiiiile
at worst I feel bad for a whiiiiiiile
but then I just smiiiiiiile."

I've thought about sacking him, but quite frankly I need the help.

But I've discovered my tool of revenge!

Yes my friends - I've learned the complete lyrics and dance moves (complete with the free-styling hand moves at the end) to the latest Frosties advert.

CHECK. IT. OUT.



Revenge is a dish best served cold - and yes, it's gonna taste great, it's gonna taste GREAT, IT'S GONNA TASTE GRREEEEEEEAT!

Marcosy is sick of it. Yaz is sick of it.

Lily Allen has been vanquished. My work is done.

I am Captain Jack

I was on the phone to my Nemesis today. He was trying to prod me about deadlines, which is an interesting thing as I've never known the man to meet a deadline in his life.

Anyway, there we were, chatting awa- I mean, there he was, chatting away while I did my utmost to sound bored, and he mentioned something about the impossible deadlines I've been working to recently.

"How are you doing with those deadlines - meeting them?"

I suddenly sat bolt upright, pulled my pirate eyepatch on, and adopted a Cap'n Jack voice.

"Meeting them?! MEETING THEM?!" I pointed my hand somewhere thataway "Of course not - I'm merely waving at them as they sail past!"

I then made a "Wooooooooooosh" noise and hung up.

Copious amounts of stuff

Not meaning to make light of a terrible situation, but I'm really hoping Condoleeza Rice's peace efforts in the Lebanon go well. I'm just gagging to see the headlines "RICE AND PEAS!"

-----

I've got a Star Trek toy on my desk at work. Well, actually, I've got bloody millions of Star Trek toys on my desk at work, but one of my favourites is my Transporter Effect Janice Rand. This is a dodgy plastic figure of Yeomon Rand - who if you don't know, is the woman with the massive beehive hairdo who just served Captain Kirk coffee all the time and looked indignant when he made a vaguely sexist remake (but as it was the sixties that made it OK, and "oh how we all laughed!").

Anyway, the figure stands on what looks sort of like a transporter pad, and is transparent from the waist down. And by transparent I mean that it is sort of see through with bits of glitter in it so it looks like she's beaming somewhere. Do you see?! Oh, god, I bet that line of toys was planned in the midst of a week long drink 'n drugs fueled uber-bender.

But the best thing about Transporter Effect Janice Rand is that the base has a button on it, and when you press the button it makes the sound of the transporter! Genius! Of course, this provides hours of fun - I press it, then quickly hide under the desk while my bemused colleagues stand around asking "where did Tim go?!"

After seven years it still never ceases to be funny!

-----

Two food related disasters: I somehow managed to flick Nandos peri-peri ketchup off the end of a chip onto both my t-shirt and trousers today. It was like potato-based medieval catapult.

I had a curry for dinner last night, but didn't finish it all and popped the rest in the bin. The hot weather is obviously, erm, accentuating the smell in Sparky Towers. I like curry as much as the next man - but a curry air freshener is a definite no-no on a warm summer's day...

-----

I was reading the Daily Mail today. Don't ask why, I just was, OK? Anyway, they've got some wizened old bint dispensing fashion advice to men, and being the style guru I am, I thought I should check how my forward-thinking views match-up with those of... a wizened old bint.

Among her delightfully insane nuggets of advice were these beauties:

• STOP wearing trainers, unless you are on a tennis court or out for a jog. Your feet will smell, with or without socks.

Sparky says: Because my feet won't smell in a pair of Timberland boots in the middle of summer, hmmm?

• IF YOU have to work in an office, or you need to be more formal in hot weather, then you should invest in at least one lightweight suit.

Sparky says: in the real world most of us do have to work in an office. Fortunately, I can wear and a wifebeater and shorts, so the whole idea of a lightweight suit is sort of moot.

• CHOOSE shoes that can be worn without socks, and make sure you have a variety of colourful, large-collared shirts that can be worn without ties.

Sparky says: What? Like a clown?

• DON'T wear a tank top or vest top, unless you work on a building site. Even if I had the misfortune to be married to you, I would certainly not want to see under your arms.

Sparky says: Look, love, I saw your photo in the paper, and to be honest I'd rather look at my under arms than your mug anyday. I believe Daphne and Celeste said it best: "U.G.L.Y. You ain't got no alibi, yo' ugly."

• NEVER wear the same pair of shoes two days in a row. They need time to breathe.

Sparky says: Oh, but my tan brogues *simply* won't go with my blue lightweight suit!

• JEREMY LANGMEAD, editor-in-chief of Wallpaper magazine and the most stylish man I know, says: 'It is cooler, in both senses of the word, to be simple. The perfect outfit is a pair of slim fit (but not tight) navy cotton trousers teamed with a white cotton T-shirt and a pair of boating shoes with no socks. Effortless, easy and smart.'

Sparky says: "Boating shoes?" "BOATING SHOES?!" What is this - the 1950s!?!? Good lord - I'd rather hack off my feet than pop them in some boating shoes! Who employed this woman? I demand answers!

I'm outraged, I tell you - OUTRAGED! My Nan knows more about fashion than this woman (seriously, my Nan's great - she's always picking me up Diesel and G-Star clothes for birthdays and Christmas. In fact, I should employ her as my personal shopper!).

Erm, so, where was I? Oh yeah - believe this woman, chaps, and nip off to BHS for some boating shoes and lightweight suits. Or join me in my t-shirts with ironically smutty slogans and jeans with inappropriately-placed holes! (Although don't actually try to get in my clothes while I'm wearing them - because that'd just be weird).

Sparky Malarkey motors!

Today Marcosy and I headed to the wilds of East London. Why would we do such a thing? Let me tell you: the London International Motor Show.

International my arse.

Anyway, it was kinda good, although we both decided there were too many people there, most of whom kept trying to walk through us. What's that about? I've not mastered the personal invisibility field just yet. Some guy even tried to get into a BMW Z4 coupe while I was sitting in it! It's not a roomy car at the best of times, and I really don't think it was designed to seat two grown men in the driver's seat at the same time.

So - let's review the best bits:


Holy crap! A sexy Volvo!


Ha! Toyota whacked some decks in the back of an Aygo! Shame they'll never make anything anywhere near as exciting...


Some nutter wasted half their life knitting a Ferrari. What's that all about?!


We both decided that the Mazda MX-5 looks a tad 'special' from the front…


Hubba hubba - my next car!


MINI had a giant Space Invaders-type game called Fake Invaders. You needed two players to play, and Marcosy was not biting. Miserable sod.


MINI also had some fake MINIs. I think she's tinkling on the ivories…


Well… It's nothing if not practical!


Erm, so I decided to ride the MINI mower… And that'll be Marcosy's finger obscuring the bottom part of the picture. I ask you, he won't let me play Fake Invaders, then he shoves his finger into view. Next time I'm getting a professional photographer.


As Marcosy and I are both MINI drivers (not the stumpy square-jawed actress, I hasten to add), we were both allowed onto the MINI BARge - a floating bar for the exclusive use of MINI owners. We had to show our keys to get onboard (which made me feel a bit like we were heading into a swingers event), and then were given free drinks and smarties - RESULT! Although at one point we think a really fat woman got on and the BARge started to list, so we abandoned ship; free smarties will only get you so far.

All in all it was a pretty good day. Except for when Marcosy made me get in a Lotus Elise - they're really freakin' difficult to get out of! And something, erm, may have broken off it when I tried to get out... Oh, and the tube and train network went tits up on the way home - meaning that I missed One Tree Hill on telly - and we briefly found ourselves stranded in Stratford. Only six years 'till the Olympics are staged in the East End - I don't doubt at all that London will be ready (!).

Now I've got to go shower - long tube journeys always make me feel a little funky.

Monkey fun and a big spider, man

Sometimes the simplest things amuse me. And sometimes they amuse me so much that I have to breath into a paper bag for a few minutes in order to calm down.

One such thing JUST HAPPENED.

Y'see, I've got a little monkey sitting on one of my computer's speakers. Not a real one, I hasten to add; a little knitted one. Look:


Say "hello" to monkey. Well go on then.

Anyway, I just happened to surf over to Iain Baker's myspace page, and Iain's got 'Shut Us Down' by The Brakes (top tune, by the way) playing on his myspace music player thingy. And do you know what? The vibrations from the speaker made it look like monkey was shaking his little woollen leg along to it. Which made me laugh a bit more than it probably should've; I told you I was easily amused.

And then monkey fell backwards off the speaker and everything suddenly took a turn for the worse.

-----

Excitement in the office yesterday - there was a ma-HOO-sive spider in the bathroom sink. I mean, freakin' MA-HOO-SIVE.

Don't believe me? Look at this bad boy:


And yes, it measured approximately two inches across.

I was straight on the phone trying to get through to Sigourney Weaver, because there's only one way I thought we could deal with this:


The last thing I wanted was for that thing to leap on to my face and impregnate me.

Quite frankly, if you measure over half an inch in either length or width, and have eight legs, you're seriously asking to see the bottom of my shoe - although sadly I was overruled on this occasion. I really don't get the hippy mentality of releasing these damn things back into the wild! CRUSH THEM!

Anyway, the bastard sneaked back in later, so if I catch it on Monday morning sitting at my desk checking my email or humping the photocopier, things are going to get biblical.

I'll fix ya

No, I'm not moving into the 'knee-capping' business, and that title's not supposed to be a threat.

I can't believe I forgot about this! While strolling down Kingston high street this morning I heard a reggae band playing outside Gap (I don't think that's specifically relevant, but I like to get all the facts down). The song they were playing sounded eerily familiar, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it...

Then it hit me.

They were playing 'Fix you' by Coldplay. But they had reggaed it up big stylee.

It was fantastic. Which is saying something, because I'm really not a Coldplay fan.

------

It's funny, I'm quite territorial over music; I really like finding quality bands when they're still playing small-ish venues (upto, say, the Shepherds Bush Empire), then get a bit huffy when they swan off to somewhere like Wembley Arena; it's almost like I resent the fact that other people latch on to them as soon as they get some success. "Yo!" I'd shout, "Where were you when people were throwing pints at them?"

I'm so glad I got to see Phantom Planet at the Mean Fiddler last year, because I'm convinced at some point everyone's going to realise how good they are, and that there's more to them than just the theme tune to The OC. And then where will I be? Wembley Arena, back row, third seat from the left. D'ya know what I mean?

That being the case, it's damned lucky I wasn't around to see The Rolling Stones and David Bowie play pub gigs back in the day. Because I'd be having real issues with the other 40,000-odd people who'll be settling down at Twickenham Stadium on August 20th to see Mick and the boys.

Woke up this morning feeling fine

Good grief! It's almost like I've been rebirthed or something - I woke up this morning in a shockingly good mood, and I'm damned if I know why. Let's not dwell on it - just suck it in, enjoy it, go with the flow.

So I headed over to Kingston (Upon-Thames, NOT Jamaica), primarily to go to the bank, but also because I do like a good look around the shops. I swear to god I can out-shop any girl, any day of the week. That said, I didn't buy anything. Well, actually, that's a little bit of a lie, because I did go to Sainsburys for some cranberry and raspberry juice (I swear they must be topping it up with crack or something - I'm completely addicted!), and ended up spending just over 20 quid.

Food shopping on a Saturday isn't usually a good idea in my opinion, because everyone in the world is there. Everyone in the world and their screaming children. There was one kid today - must've been about four - who appeared to be able to say "mum" over and over and over and over again in a bizarrely loud voice and without taking a single breath. He alone was proof for my belief that all children should be regarded as valid targets for tranquilizer darts. Or at the very least ritalin darts.

And in other news - it's been raining! I knew that naked rain dance I did last night would work!

Thunderbolts and lightning, very very frightening things

I would really love a storm right about now. I'm not dissing the hot weather (which, by the way, I'm loving), but I'd quite like a teensy-tiny respite. Just a little storm to clear the air. Because everyone's starting to sweat (although posh people insist they're merely 'glowing'. Fat people have been glowing for years, but I still say they're sweaty).

So, yes, just a little bang and a few flashes, please.

OK, I just read that last line back and it sounded really dirty - am I reclaiming my crown as the king of smut?

Don't mess with monkey pirate!

Arrrrr… Oo-oo… Arrr…!

(Seriously, I'm either sugar rushing big-time, or someone needs to call the funny farm ASAP)

I'm just working for the weekend

When will the nightmare end?!

Heh, only joking. Seriously, though, I'm right in the mood for the weekend - and I mean right NOW. Shame there's still Friday to go.

Maybe it's the glorious weather. Maybe it's the fact that I'm really not in the mood to be shackled to a desk when I'd quite like to be out running. I don't know... Maybe I'm just b.o.r.e.d. Whatever it is, I picked up a copy of the Superman Returns soundtrack today (I'm quite partial to movie scores, don't ya know), so I think I'll boost my energies just as I'm parking up by work tomorrow by blasting the main theme out of the car stereo.

DA DA DA DA DA-DAAA, DA DA DA DA DA-DAAA-DA-DA-DA-DA-DAAAAAA…! (or something like that).

Oh, and in related matters, the lovely locksmiths who let me park outside their offices are moving next week, so I've got to find somewhere else to park. As if I don't have enough things to do! I'm going to "tsk" now.

TSK!

July 19th

Today is notable for two reasons: first of all London was officially as hot as the surface of the sun, and secondly, because it marks the seventh anniversary of me starting work at my current job.

Which is kind of bloody scary, because basically I've dedicated more time to this job than to any other part of my life. Shit! I've spend pretty much a quarter of my life there!

The more I think about it the more scary/worrying that is, because I don't like the idea of being stagnant doing the same ol' thing day in, day out - which I've begun to think I may be... But then again, where else could I spend my days writing captions such as 'Lt. Commander Geordi La Forge is perplexed by the intermittent flux irregularity in the starboard plasma conduits'?

It's the seven year itch, I tells ya!

All concerns about work aside, today sort of passed me by quite well... aside from a phone call from my Nemesis. He rabbited on for about 10 minutes about a subject that had nothing whatsoever to do with work, then said "why did I call you again?"

"I don't know," I replied, doing my very best to let my honest disinterest in anything he has to say shine through. I followed it up with: "*COUGH!*-nobwit-*COUGH!*"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Nothing - must've had a frog in my throat."

See - even after seven years I'm nothing if not professional.

Everyone loves the monkey

Conversation with me these days naturally turns towards the subject of pets as I continue to dither over whether to welcome little Smudge into my life.

Look, here’s the little blighter with her eyes open now:


OK, I know, you can’t REALLY see that much, just two white paws and a big… well, black smudge. How apt. Anyway, the paws are damned cute, I think you’ll agree.

Anyway, Yaz has decided she wants to get a new pet. But she does not want a cat or a dog. She is not even swayed by my suggestion of a miniature horse.

She wants a monkey.

Yes, I said she wants a monkey.

Not a great ape, or a baboon or something like that. She wants one of those little ones, like Marcel from Friends. And that vicious little one from Raiders of the Lost Arc that wears a little waistcoat, and possibly even a fez, if memory serves me correctly. I don’t think she’s seen the Dustin Hoffman epic Outbreak, and I’m loathe to tell her to watch it because, while I’m dithering over the kitten, I really want her to get a monkey. Mainly because if it starts baring its nasty little pointy teeth at people and throwing poo around, it’s not my problem; I can just sit back and laugh. Unless it’s throwing poo at me.

So, yeah, the idea of a pet monkey is quite cool. I’ve even suggested that she could dress it up in little costumes; a sailor suit, a cowboy suit, perhaps even a little mariachi suit. Although to be frank it does sound like I’m planning on putting together some kind of monkey-based version of the Village People (“Young chimp, there's no need to feel down/I said, young chimp, pick yourself off the ground/I said, young chimp, 'cause you're in a new town/There's no need to be unhappy!” And, erm, so on…).

Apparently, London Zoo has opened a new monkey enclosure that you can walk through. Now that sounds like fun. Yaz and I are plotting to case the joint in August. And, er, y’know… wouldn’t it be awful if one ‘accidentally’ fell in her bag?

Cooking with Sparky Malarkey: Mash, bang, wallop

Dear J. Sainsburys,

I am writing to inform you of how much I enjoy shopping in your stores – the quality of food and the range of produce available is almost beyond the realm of human imagination.

However, I must admit a degree of surprise upon purchasing, and subsequently microwaving, a tub of your ‘Taste the Difference’ Taw Valley Cheddar Mash. Having followed the instructions on the packaging (pierce film lid and place on a non-metallic dish), I was, as I’m sure you’ll understand, somewhat shocked to hear a deafening bang emanating from the confines of my microwave. Further investigation revealed that the mash had exploded through the aforementioned piercings in the film lid, and was oozing around the tub like a poorly executed special effect from the popular 1980s movie Ghostbusters.

Is this what’s supposed to happen?

Yours Sincerely,

Sparky

Funny books

Anyone who's looked at my blogger profile will know that I list 'unpublished comic book writer,' along with 'being an astronaut' and 'international playboy' in my interests (two of those three are lies; unfortunately, the 'unpublished comic book writer' bit is not).

Anyway, at the suggestion of Simon/Jamal, I've taken the plunge and whacked some of the pages of the last project that I worked on with my co-conspirator Graham (he draws pretty pictures!) up on my myspace page (hey, if it works for bands...).

It's a bit odd to plonk them up there. It's like baring your soul. Well, no it's not, actually. But, y'know, there's every possibility that someone could leave a comment branding them "shite," which would probably make me cry.

Oh, and I've done this without telling Graham either, so he might yet kill me.

So feel free to head over to my myspace page to 'ave a look. Especially if you work for DC or Marvel. Or Image or Fantagraphics. Oh, and if you're also a myspace member, bloody well friend me (erm, please).

Any and all comments, either here or on the myspace page are welcome... He says, bracing himself for a torrent of abuse!