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Monday, 25 November 2024

Writing for Viz

 "You should be ashamed of yourself"


...is the response of someone close-ish to me when they discovered that I occasionally write something for hashtagVizComic

It made me chortle a little, which is appropriate. Because, almost by accident, Viz is the greatest satirical magazine the country has produced for decades. Yes, it has its scatological moments, and no, it's never Political with a capital P.

It's as scathing as ever as it holds up a mirror to societal vignettes. Rather than an overarching manifesto, it shows the grubbier sides of life (sometimes). The work of Barney Farmer & Lee Healey produces the ever-dark Drunken Bakers, shot through with desperation and regrets of the past; or how about Whoops Aisle Apocalypse, where a main character is obsessed with supermarket markdowns, and the strip generally ends in a mass brawl amongst shoppers fighting over £1.20 chicken strips. (That character also looks a lot like Geoffrey from Rainbow, for some reason. Barney didn't confirm or deny it when I asked him).

Elsewhere there's Foodie Bollocks, skewering snobs of scran delightfully; 

My favourite of all time, though, is Davey Jones. A surrealist par excellence, whose work deserves to be up there with Vic and Bob, the Pythons, and Spike Milligan. From Vibrating Bum-Faced Goats to a deliciously depressing strip about the ghost of Bruce Forsyth living inside a crumbling castle in the shape of his own head, via Gilbert Ratchet and Tinribs - the man is an absolute genius.

So many iconic strips, too: Terry Fuckwitt is an incredible, constantly perplexing, wonderfully-delivered ongoing slice of Escher-esque mad logic. Through the looking glass, upside down, intra-dimensionally - somewhere it makes sense.

The tropes of 'kid has a special power' are lovingly reworked, too: the long-running Tommy 'Banana' Johnson, with variations on a theme, is the exemplar of that. Viz doesn't reject its past; it celebrates it, embraces it, gives it LSD, and lets it loose.

That's what people get wrong so often about it. It's not just fart jokes, though of course there's plenty of those, too.

What I like the most about Viz, and writing for Viz from time to time, is that basically if something makes Graham and Simon laugh, then it'll get in the comic. Doesn't matter who wrote it, their status, or any crap like that. The main and only requirement? Is it funny or not.

So, no, I'm not ashamed, not least cause I'm in the company of David Bowie (who loved Viz), Peter Cook (who voiced some of the cartoons), Harry Enfield (likewise), and the vast majority of the UK's gigging comedians who subscribe to the comic.

Delighted to say that my latest piece 'Everything's a Competition' is in the Christmas 2024 issue of Viz. Go buy it, you won't regret it.

My back might be fucked, my knee misbehaving too. But my brain's still kind of working, somewhere underneath.

Yabadabadoo! Viz is ace. Long may it reign.

Wednesday, 6 November 2024

MATA

Suck it losers

we won


we are awesome

cause we won


look at those losers

over there


"thinking"

Monday, 28 October 2024

You'd think

You'd think, wouldn't you

That in all this 'time off'

I'd've

* Improved my Spanish

* Written loads

* Attended webinars

* Learned the uke, the harmonica, the piano, the kalimba, the mandolin properly


Ah well, you'd think wrong 

Cause it's not 'time off'

It's time on 

* Being in constant pain

* Getting knackered walking 50 yards on sticks

* Taking 20 mins to unload a dishwasher

* Taking ages to load the washing machine 

* Being too fucked to actually hoover


You know, thinking about it

I'd rather be at work

Complaining 

* That it's raining

* That it's fucking Monday 

* That it's busy

* That it's quiet

* That my back hurts a little bit, but no more than a back normally would in this weather at my age after lifting all those boxes of paper and doing all that high shelving


Maybe one day 

I'll be back


Wednesday, 16 October 2024

un/grateful

There's new things I can’t do like walking or working

but, see: my book’s flying


I’m not doing housework or cleaning or cooking

but it’s fucking selling


There’s no real connection, but it feels like a tradeoff

a bargain with – who? - someone?


I’ve written nowt decent for – what? - three months?

fuck this interregnum.



Codeine for the fucked back; it smooths me a little

but smothers as much


Drained of motivation, a fight to stay level

but can’t give enough


A waste of this nowhere, unable to battle

toward what I want:


Appointments ahead, Joe, so wait for the phonecall,

and keep your head up



People are shocked when they see me. I’m shorter

than I ever was


Some lose weight: I lost height. Oh how truly funny

a fractured back is


I’m waiting for respite. Stability. Something.

I’m fragile. I rust,


But my book is selling. It just won’t stop soaring:

my spine crumbles, dust.



Monday, 2 September 2024

Machete, dulled

The bramble scratch, the nettle rash,

the dulled machete’s feeble hack,

a year, a second, dizzied time,

its tendrils creepful, serpentine.


Half-drowned in dirty dopamine,

baptised by gremlin gods unseen

and devil dogs with rancid breath

scrape bloodied claws, scars snarling death.


The tangled thicket’s insurrection

thwarts progress in all dimensions;

crazy patterns, mazes turning,

muscles burning, melting, yearning


for any movement, for distraction.

Every moment, every action

trips-out troubles, tangles, tumbles;

a thousand cuts, a thousand stumbles.


A month, an hour, a life, obscene

to carry on, to writhe, to scream:

but on we must. So pain, so fear:

brambled, nettled, human, here.




Thursday, 22 August 2024

The Impresario Barry Smalls

Barry Smalls had smelly balls

They stank like rancid guff

He scrubbed and scrubbed with full strength bleach

Until his cock fell off


Undeterred he paused a mo

Then said pragmatically

I'll fry that up with onion rings

And have it for my tea


Sunday, 18 August 2024

Treatment Agreement

Hey! Professional listener!

Watch as I puke up scabs and scraps!

Just nod or grimace when I stop.

Trained to recognise which to enact.


Wonky steps, crude dark descent:

the pressure forces fluid from my brain.

Drill my skull before it explodes;

Oh hapful procedure! Oh give me release!


Despite me, to spite me, to kiss me, to bite me:

A feast of my metallic gristly blood abounds!

Sundry nothings from another festering taproot.

I’m such a sad, broken, abandoned bandicoot.


Surrogate mothering is where it’s at!

Tell me I’m your only one!

The hands of the clock clap me back upstairs.

I’m lost in the universe far from where we began.


Thank you for being kind.

See you next week

for more trepanation

and flirting and grief.