Monday, 6 February 2017

Bad Blood

Why start a blog in the first place?  Well, there a many reasons why you would. Having something to say is generally a major one.  As is attention seeking. And looking to have fun.  As such, blogging tends to attract people with a potentially ruinous combination of low self-esteem and an over-opinionated nature.  And as such, it goes with me.  I was never listened to as a child, and always had more thoughts than I could reasonably express in the restrictive environments in which I was put.  So it was natural that, at 24, I started my first blog.

Don't worry, these first blogs are safely archived on my blogger account where you'll never see them.  If you are so minded, you could be like one of my exes and find pretty much all of it on the Wayback Machine, but I assume you, dear reader, have a healthy lack of interest in such things.

What I am most notable for (stretching the definition somewhat), is writing a blog called "Seeing The Lizards".  Back in the early 2010s, beer was a thing, and many blogs sprang up to service both the interests of its fans and the needs of its writers.  I joined in during April 2013, seeing a gap in the market.

"Beer is supposed to be fun, isn't it?" I thought naively "So, why is it all so serious?  I'll have some fun here."  Well, we were all young once, and I was 37.

Coming from a later perspective than most bloggers, it was noted by some that my observations on the beer scene were slightly, shall we say, off-kilter.  Not really a believer in phenomena such as "Golden Ages" or "Altruism", I mocked and called into question the prevailing narrative of The Campaign For Real Ale, a sometimes dogmatic and backward-looking organisation which thinks it all was better when everyone drank cask-conditioned beer.  Also, as someone who doubts the value of things such as trends, fashion and following the herd, I made fun of Craft Beer (stereotypically over-strong, over-hopped and murky as a government PR release),

I'll admit it here.  Taking the piss is one of my few talents, and found none of this particularly difficult.  I generally wrote my blog posts in the pub during the consumption of many pints.  I rarely stopped to reflect on what I actually wrote,  If a post took longer than 45 minutes, I considered it a waste of valuable drinking time.  I did find a few things out in the years I did it though.  Older, amateur bloggers tend to take piss-taking in good humour.  After all, as I said above, beer is meant to be fun.

If only the same could be said of the new wave of (mainly) youthful beer writers.  To them, beer is Serious Business, and anything that is seen to denigrate their truth-obscuring positivity and thus their potential revenue stream, will result in the unfortunate person committing the "offence" being regarded as a pariah.

This, for me, is where the scene started to go wrong.

It started slowly at first.  I had a few run ins with the aforementioned Awesome Beer Communicator Dudes.  One well-know beer/food events person/journalist once castigated me on Twitter for suggesting that someone who works in a supermarket for minimum wage may not be that interested in evangelising the Awesomeness of Craft Beer to otherwise uninterested shoppers.  Her response was "Don't have a go at me just because you hate your job.".  I looked back through the thread for instances where I had done either.  Finding none, I decided it was best to unfollow her before it escalated any further.  I compared her follower numbers (35,000) to mine (250) and reasoned than I would be unlikely to be seen to come off best, quite apart from any strengths of weaknesses in my arguments. It carried on occasionally after that.  An ABCD would take exception to something I wrote or Tweeted.  I took at as the price I had to pay for sticking my neck out on certain subjects.  If you say something, and a lot of people hear it, it's inevitable that some won't like it.  And some, for reasons unknown to anyone but themselves, can take great personal offence to it.

Case in point.  One Matthew Curtis, a writer (or "storyteller" as he alone refers to himself).  For him, the beer scene he is part of is all Awesome.  His blog posts were full of him walking down the road and asking his beer mates to tell him how wonderful they were.  Small scale Craft was the thing, dudes, and big beer is evil and co-opts brewers and journalists into to their awful web of mass-produced blandness.

Which made it all the more amusing when he went "Professional".  In the middle of last year, Curtis announced he was doing "paid content" for "some partner breweries". The first of which turned out to be Pilsner Urquell, then owned by SAB-Miller, the second-biggest brewing company in the world.  If any awkward or even probing questions were asked during his visit, he didn't relay any of the answers to his readers when he wrote it up later in his familiar "it's all awesome, dudes!" style.  Fair enough, really.  Everybody has their price.  And of course I mocked him for doing so.  What's the point of satire if not to call stuff out?  It didn't stop him, however, writing a blog in December  having a go at those who accused him of selling out.  Ever eloquent, he said such people were "dicks".

A few days later, I wrote a reply on the blog.  Obviously being one of the "dicks" he was referring to, I thought I had right of reply.  Mr. Curtis thought otherwise, and took to Twitter to put me in my place.  I didn't expect him to like what I'd written about him. Who would?  But what I got was this :

That annoyed far, far more than being called a dick.  I was tempted to reply telling him what kind of discourse a society could have if people were only allowed to read and comment on things they knew they were going to agree with.  The sheer gall of someone ordering me what to read and what not to read was, frankly, breathtaking,  As someone who in the past has been accused of a lack of self-awareness, even I would struggle to top that.  Not to mention the tweet from one of his friends (putting in "@seethelizards" to make sure I'd see it) guffawing that my 292 followers would be upset by me seeing that.  As Mr. Curtis himself never tires of telling us, Beer People Are Good People,

In retrospect, I should have realised I was on a hiding to nothing at this point.  But no, I carried on.  One of my less sensible characteristics is my belief that things will improve, despite mountains of evidence to the contrary.  It's only when utterly irrefutable evidence appears before my eyes that something is irrecoverably destroyed that I finally give .  It duly arrived around a fortnight later.

Every January, there's a beer festival in Manchester.  Along with the usual drinking, queueing for toilets and eating stuff you'd never eat otherwise, there's a Question & Answer panel with a group of beer people.  This year, it didn't go according to place.  To cut a long story short, another blogger who commented on  the appalling sexism of the event and beer in general, was cut off in his audience-based contribution sooner than he thought he should have been.  Still visibly furious, even on paper, he wrote a blog post a few days later about what happened.  Ever unwise, I commented on it, saying that sexism isn't just a problem in the beer world, but in all of society and throughout all age groups.

I didn't know this particular blog was read by one Martyn Cornell, a published beer author with a large vocabulary (he calls his blog "Zythophile" and helpfully gives a pronunciation guide for it to the ignorant) and elegant turn of phrase.  And what did he have to say about my contribution? Well.

For someone who spends a lot of his writing life telling people their preconceptions and common knowledge are incorrect ("The origin of IPA is a myth!" etc.) he seems to have a particular talent for grasping the wrong end of the stick himself.  Someone later told me "you must have pushed some kind of button with him, god knows what though.".  I knew then that some people are often going to wilfully misunderstand me.  But why?

Then a few days ago it hit me.  Because I don't operate the same way they do, and I'm not the same kind of person as they are.  I never went to university.  I have a low paying job.  I've admitted online I have an autistic spectrum disorder.  And worst of all, I don't take it seriously.  If I poke my head out of my carefully burrowed niche of mockery, then I'm an upstart, a parvenu.  How dare I comment on these things?  I need to be put in my place.

There's little common ground between the ABCDs and I.  My blog?  Well, it's switched to author-only viewing for now.  Whether it comes back depends on whether I feel I can take the grief associated with being true to my opinions and my personal ethos.  They've shoved me back in my hole.  I'd like to think they're happy about, but I doubt they've given it a single thought since.

Are beer people good people?  Not really.  They're just people.  With all humanity's flaws of cliquiness, one-upmanship,  bullying, crassness and insularity.  For all it's self-proclaimed claims of inclusiveness, the beer world doesn't take well to being told things it doesn't like. As said previously, much in common with the rest of the human race.  Those who stick their head above the parapet are likely to be shot in the face.

It's stopped being fun.

Sunday, 8 February 2015

Death Cab For Cutie

Stewartby Middle School, June 1988

There comes a time in your life as child where you realise, contrary to your previous beliefs, that  you’re not the centre of the universe.  Events will overtake your life. And there’s very little you can do about it.


I’m not sure of the exact sequence of events.  My guess is it started sometime in spring 1986.  My father had a falling out with his immediate superior at General Accident. The way the story was told to me was he either had a choice of accepting a lower grade position at his branch in Preston, or transferring to another branch on the same or higher grade.  As was my father’s way of thinking, he took the latter.

I’m not sure why he did this.  Maybe he thought, as a 31 year old with a young family and a mortgage to support, he couldn’t take the financial hit of less money.  The problem was, he had to take whatever requisite grade position was available. He took one in St. Albans, 250 miles from Preston.

To be fair to him, he did try the commuting option for a while, and I presume this was sponsored for a limited time by the company. A week in a hotel at a time is expensive, though, so he looked for a home somewhat nearer to Hertfordshire than where his family was based. Eventually, (the South East was expensive even then), he found something in Marston Moretaine, a speck-in-the-country village between Bedford and Luton.


The date for our house move to Bedfordshire was set for 7th January 1987.  Christmas 1986 was the worst I ever had. My parents got me a reasonably expensive Transformers set, but despite their consumerist expectations, it wasn’t enough to dispel the gloom of the impending house move to a place I knew nothing about.  In fact, I’d go as far as to say that I’ve never had a good Christmas in the 28 years since (though working in retail never helps).  My father could have been more considerate to his family’s future, but I guess some things are more important than your children’s happiness.

I had a valedictory final day at Whitefield Primary School on the first day of Spring Term in January 1987.  And then I bade my classmates farewell.  I’m sure my teacher was glad to be rid of me.


Now, I don’t know how British Primary School Children are helped to adjust to Secondary School Life, because it never happened to me.

A small word about the differing education systems in the country.  Most County Education Authorities use a simple Primary  (kids aged 4-11) and Secondary (kids aged 11-16) system.  This is what I understood and was educated to go through.   Unfortunately, Bedfordshire operated on a tripartite system of Lower (4-9), Middle (9-13) and Upper (13-16) schools.  And I, aged 11, was dumped straight into a middle school with no warning.

At a Primary school, you stay in the same classroom with the same teacher for the entire school day. When you go to Secondary school, you have to move around to different classrooms to different teachers for different subjects.  My guess (though I never experienced this myself) is that new First Year Secondary school pupils ( or Year 7s, as I believe they’re called nowadays), are given a lot of guidance and help to adjust to an unfamiliar system.
Bedfordshire Middle Schools operated like Secondaries, and I was never told this.  On my first day at Stewartby Middle School, I went from Assembly back to the classroom I’d come from, only to find my erstwhile teacher instructing a class of 13 year olds in English.  I had been given a timetable showing where I was supposed to be, but nobody had taken the trouble to explain it to me.  As I’ve often said, I learn the most important lessons in the hardest way possible.

Through the tears, I eventually figured out the whole thing.  But I realised that this was the level of support I should expect to be given by those who had a duty of care towards me.  My parents took me away from what I knew, and left me to fend for myself.  The education system didn’t take into account where I’d come from and left me to fend for myself.  So, what does a child does a child learn from these experiences? Well, mainly that those who are supposed to be looking after your best  interests  don’t really care that much.  You have to work it out yourself, and probably suffer greatly in the process.

There was more to come. Stewartby Middle School had a very large catchment area, due to the fact it was based around a brick factory village in the middle of nowhere.  Pupils were bussed in from the surrounding villages in the morning, and bussed back out in the afternoon. Baffling as it may seem to anyone who had actually been there, Marston Moretaine was reckoned to be a big place, and required two busses. 

As it happened one day, during my first couple of months at Stewartby, I missed the Marston bus I was supposed to be on, for reasons I can no longer recall.  I wanted my parents to pick me up.  But no, they took the logical (for them) step of forcing me on the other bus.  I’d taken great pains to become familiar with the routine of my bus, and having to take another distressed me greatly.  Of course, they didn’t care.  Suck it up, man.  You’re 11 after all.

I was poured off the bus at Church End, Marston around 20 minutes later.  As I remember, another pupil (one of the more sympathetic ones in the top year) was deputed to take me home.  I got as far as the front door of my house and collapsed in distress.  My mother took my into the kitchen and hugged me until I stopped crying, probably about 30 minutes.
As far as I can remember, this was the only (and probably last) time I had physical contact with my mother after the age of six.

Friday, 6 February 2015

Look At Me I'm Wonderful

I never wanted to be a writer.  It just happened.
When you’re young, you realise there’s a lot of stuff out there.  And even if you realise the world is not exactly wonderful, it’s New.  Because you’ve not been around to see much of it.  And so it was with comics for me.

Stoke-on-Trent is much maligned, probably rightly, for many things.  But it did contain the first comic shop I ever went to.  Before this, I’d got the odd American comic, rather than a UK reprint.  You could occasionally find a few random issues at a newsagents.  I’ve no idea how they got them, but I knew there wasn’t a consistent supply.  So when I discovered Hanley’s real, actual Comic Shop (at the time called “Fantasy World”) in 1988, to me I may as well have discovered the Holy Grail, the Wreck of the Titanic, and those missing episodes of Doctor Who all at once.

I was 12 years old. I didn’t have much in the way of disposable income, but I spent it all on Marvel comics (which were 50p each back then, my recollection is they went up to 65p in Summer 1989).  The most popular was the Uncanny X-Men, which I found incomprehensible.  The Incredible Hulk was better written, but had almost unreadable art.  I bought plenty of back issues.  To this day, one of my proudest possessions is my copy of Hulk #103.  In fact, pretty much every comic I bought in my 10 year buying period is contained in this room in which I’m typing this.


You will not be surprised to learn that I was socially isolated as a teenager.  I know the reasons why now, but I didn’t then.  I had plenty of things to say, just no way to say them and nobody to say them to.  My parents were bored and irritated by me, and my siblings (aged 10 and 2 in 1989) were somewhat limited in conversational abilities.  There wasn’t anyone at school I had things in common with.  It’s good to be unique, apparently, but it’s very hard work.

One of the ways I was different from everyone else at school became apparent in Computing lessons.  My school had a whole pile of ancient 8-bit and slightly newer 16-bit machines on which to demonstrate what was laughably known as “the future of the world”.  Being kids, they all preferred the games.  I, on the other hand, was fascinated by the graphics programmes and Desktop publishing/Font software.  So much better to create stuff than just consume an experience.  But tell them that.  Both pupils and teachers included.

So, I got the bug to produce my own magazine.  I had the subject – comics being pretty much the only thing I knew anything about. I just lacked any way to do the stuff at home.  We got a halfway decent computer in 1991.  An Atari ST, a technology even then around 6 years old. My brother wanted a Commodore Amiga on the grounds that it had “better games”.  Being older, I won the argument.

I amassed my personal Publishing Empire on the cheap.  Something else I didn’t know at the time was the market for software for the ST was declining, and lots was being given away on the cover disks of magazines.  This was the way I got my DTP program, a 1987 version of Timeworks Publisher in 1992.  And on that I learned to do everything, as it was so limited I had to be creative.

By early 1993.  I had everything I needed for production.  Even the extremely noisy 24-pin  dot matrix printer.  I decided to test the market. 


But what to do for content?  Amazingly, I had not considered that to do a magazine, you had to have stuff to put in it.  Oh well, I decided, I’ll have to write some stuff myself.  So I did four articles and various things.  I remember one was about Guy Gardner, and another slagging off Rob Liefeld’s Youngblood (picking the difficult targets as always).  After a couple of weeks of bashing out this nonsense, I had enough for a sampler issue.  I placed a classified ad in the trade paper of the time, Comics International.  I didn’t let on I was only 17.  I think most people guessed eventually.

It was this way I got a free copy of Battleground, the premier comics fanzine of the time.  I read it.  Took a while, as it was produced the old fashioned way – on a typewriter, using the technique of shrinking down and physically pasting the columns up.  It was hard work.  But that was nothing compared to the actual text. Apparently, comics were a serious medium.  Worthy of comparison to films and real literature.

At this point, I had never read anything but Marvels and DCs.  I had no idea what the writers in Battleground were talking about.  But it was serious stuff.  By god, was it serious.  It quickly became clear to me I couldn’t compete on this level, being a teenager and having had no experience of art or life in general.  No, I had to do something else.  But what?

Other people were more encouraging.  Well known comics letter column correspondent Rol Hirst got sent a copy by me, too.  God alone knows what he thought of my amateur kiddy scribblings compared to his background in English Literature.  But at least he read (and admitted reading) superhero comics.  But he wrote back in suitably positive terms about my attempts at article writing.  And gave me a free copy of his comic, The Jock, too.  “Does anybody pay for stuff in comics fandom, or do they wait for the free stuff to be sent to them?” I wondered.  I’ve never met him, but we’re still in contact to this day (Hi Rolbert, if you’re reading this).

I liked the nice things people said about my efforts.  But that wouldn’t help me fill up the other twenty pages of fanzine I had to write.  So, what was I going to do?  The answer was more obvious than I expected.

Monday, 2 February 2015

Button Up Your Overcoat

I’m sure you’ve read all this, and have gathered an opinion of how well I’m able to cope with the things life throws at me. Well, depends how you define “cope”, really.  If by that you think I can get through it all without hanging myself or generally massacring humanity, then fair enough, yes.  But if you think I’m able to stumble through the lot with complete equanimity and indifference to what happens, then you’re wrong.  Horribly wrong.


I am not well.  I have not been well for at least 30 years, if not my entire life. Other people, from my parents, my teachers, my doctors, and my immediate superiors at work have not realised or understood this.  In many ways, it’s not their fault.  I’ve tried my best to hide it.  After all, how far can you get in life if you say “I’m a fucking basket case, and can’t cope with all this shit.”?  My guess is not very, so I don’t say anything.

Whereas I have Asperger Syndrome (look, I have an official diagnosis and everything, from a REAL psychiatrist rather than an multiple choice internet test), I don’t necessarily want people to know this.  It would be wonderful if people had no prejudices about others who were Neurologically Different, but no, people don’t work like that.  I’ve regularly heard people, hopefully unknowingly about my status, talk disparagingly about people who are “Aspergers” or  “autistic”.  I can’t say anything.  Boat rockers not welcome.

And so, I try my best to fit in.  Whether I do it well or not is not for me to say.  My sister-in-law describes me as eccentric.  Well, that’s what she says.  Who knows what she actually means?  As a defence mechanism, I always say “I’m not eccentric.  Everyone else is.” Which cannot be disproved, but nobody would actually believe it.

I do try hard.  Despite what other people would say.  I go out, I talk to people.  I interact with them .  Possibly not in the way they’d want me to.  I’ve found that people would rather talk about utterly irrelevant subjects (football, reality TV)  and for that I can’t say anything.  I have a feeling I’m blamed for this, because it’s my fault I have no interest in the “normal” things.

But nonetheless, I do try.  Eventually, if I can get the people conversed with down to two, or at best one, I can get to subjects I can talk about.  I’m sure I’ve bored many of the barstaff at pubs with my alleged conversation.  Unfortunately for them, there are no drinks to pull, so they have to appear to be interested in what I say.  I have no illusions about my own personal charisma.  I just assume I’m slightly more interesting than cleaning.


Alcohol is a harsh mistress. Better, I’ll admit, than a real girlfriend. While it costs a lot and makes you miserable and ill, it only does so for about a day.  After which you can choose whether you want to indulge again.  In a relationship, however, your significant other is at you all the time. No matter how bad you feel.

I get drunk fairly regularly. There are many reasons for this.

I’ll admit to liking the taste of beer, whisky and various cocktails. I’m sure such knowledge is not news to anybody who knows me. But that’s not the reason I go out. I have enough alcoholic drinks on my shelves as home to kill me twenty times over.  I could get drunk at home for ages, and for free too.  So why do I go down the pub?

In many ways, my regular life is very socially disappointing. I work with a lot of people in retail, but I don’t have anything in common with them.  They are, I hesitate to say, normal. They watch TV, they drink and fight and screw and argue and make up and generally have what psychologists would term an emotionally fulfilling life.  I wouldn’t be able to cope with that.  My life is based around ruthlessly cutting out emotions so I can whittle everything down to a level I can cope with. If ever I go out with the people I work with, I have to leave early before I get angry or upset.  If they ask later, I just say I was tired.

My days off are Sunday and Monday. And, by god, am I grateful. I’ve tried going out on Friday and Saturday, even in the places I normally go.  And I cannot cope.  I cannot cope with the regular, normal members of the human race being crass, crude, loud and drunk. I have to hide in a corner and wait to go home.  Sometimes the barstaff who know me ask if everything is ok.  I lie and say yes.  Easier than explaining my emotional state in a noisy and crowded bar.

Even when I go out on the quiet days, it never goes right.  It starts off ok.  I can cope when they pub is empty, or only has a couple of people in.   But the more crowded it gets, the more I have to drink to blot it out.  I’m sure you’re saying now “Then why the bloody hell do you go, if it’s that obviously distressing?”. It’s both simple and sad to explain.

I can’t relate to real people, as described above.  The people who work in the pub are the closest I have to a family.  Sure, I have a real family, but the vast majority of them are simply carrying too much baggage about me, are too far away, or too busy to deal with me.  Whatever can be said about pub staff, they’re always there.  Whether they actually are interested or just want to ensure my continued custom is not for me to say. 

I hope they do like me as a person though, despite the obvious and massive flaws described above. As someone told me recently, I do make it bloody hard for people to be friends with me.

Sunday, 1 February 2015

Beautiful Zelda

The internet is a blessing and a curse.  The blessing is that it brings you into contact with other people.  The curse is that it brings you into contact with other people.


I got the internet in 1997.  April 1 1997, to be exact.  Make of that what you will.  I went into the Hanley branch of Dixons and bought a Pentium 100 PC on credit.  That same day, I also bought “A People’s Tragedy” by Orlando Figes and the complete works of the Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band.  As I said, make of that what you will.

I got the lot home somehow, and managed to fix up the 33.6k modem.  That was all we had in those days.  You hooked it up to your home phone and not only hoped for the best, but were charged 4 pence a minute for the privilege.  And if you were (slowly) downloading anything, your connection was cut and you had to start again.  Laughable as it may seem in this age of streaming video, instant news and Skype the majority of your time in the 1990s was spent waiting for pictures to load.

Because the bandwidth was immensely limited back then, we had to find other ways to communicate.  We didn’t have forums, and had to subscribe to something called “Usenet”. This predated the World Wide Web, and was basically a hierarchy of servers, called “newsgroups” you could send messages to, both new and in reply to others. It worked, in a basic way.  Though I’m sure kids today would be as incredulous as we were when we were told TV used to be in black and white.

My major hangout was a newsgroup called “”.  The subject at hand was a game called, yes, Creatures. Apparently based on artificial life and intelligence, it consisted of sprites of cute little furry animals walking around, bouncing balls, and saying things like “bub bibble”. In retrospect, I think the game’s creators simply put a backstory in place to make it seem more complex and engaging than it actually was.

Anyway, I talked to other players on this newsgroup, and there was some kind of community going about it.  I even did my own website about it.  Microsoft Frontpage and Cooper Black were my best friends back then, and if nothing else I’m grateful the Wayback Machine doesn’t seem to have taken snapshots of the WWW that far back. I’d never live it down.


Probably to my misfortune, around this time I was introduced to a program called ICQ. This was a novel (at the time) internet instant messaging service.  Most of the people I was in contact with on were signed up to it.  I had conversations with many people on it.  Attention seeking teenagers, pot-smoking New Zealanders searching for their birth parents,  Finnish web designers, people with cancer from Sheffield.  I talked to them all.  Whether I should have invested what I laughably call my emotions in such people is another matter.

The two people I was closest to on ICQ were Lis, a mature student from Cheshire and Emily, a teenage girl from Elmhurst, Illinois.  Talking to both at the beginning was a struggle, as both had self-esteem and mental health issues.  But eventually we formed some kind of bond and, despite the fact I never physically met either of them, they were my closest friends.

Lis was a problem case.  A student studying potato blight, she suffered badly from depression and was in constant dispute with her mother.  We talked of many things.  Software piracy, chocolate bloom, the perils of being isolated and single in your early 20s.  Despite the fact that, in her words, she “preferred women”, I fell in love with her.  It was terrible, and it got in the way of our friendship in the end.  After one particularly catastrophic argument, she told me “Learn to think of someone else but yourself for a change”, and cut me off.  We rarely spoke after that.  We tried, but it was never the same.

Emily was different. She only communicated with me in one word replies for a couple of months.  I’d like to say I saw something behind her terse and taciturn nature and persevered thus, but in reality I was so desperate for friendship back then that I took whatever was on offer, no matter how unsatisfactory.  She was resolutely immature, as should be expected of a 16 year old.  Emily’s main rejoinder whenever I said anything was “Meh”.  I detected a certain lack of interest in life in general.

Eventually, she opened up too. Despite her obvious low self-esteem, she proved quite the flirt.  Possibly she was surprised that any male would be interested in her, even a self-admitted 22-year-old basket case from across the Atlantic.  I even made plans to go and see her in America.  Like many things in my life, it didn’t happen.  Looking back, I’m glad it didn’t.  It could never have matched up to what I imagine it could have been.  She eventually broke off contact and went to college.  I haven’t heard from her in nearly 10 years.


It’s now 2015. None of us are young any more.  Lis is 40, and Emily is 31.  I’ve not been in contact with either for many years.  I last heard from Emily in 2006.  We exchanged a few emails via her Livejournal, which mainly seemed to concern The Sims 2.  Lis, well, I sent her a Happy Birthday email when she was 38 (I remembered it as her birthday is the day before mine).  I never received a reply and left it at that.

The lesson I learned here is that, despite what I say, how long I say it for or how much personal  information I exchange with people, I can never be really close to them.  I cannot give them what they want.  In fact, the ease of communication the internet provides is more of a curse than a blessing.  It does enable you to write what you could never say out loud, but that doesn’t mean what you actually communicate to people is either sensible or healthy.

I should never have hooked up that modem,  to be honest. I should have stuck with the Orlando Figes book and the Bonzos.

Friday, 30 January 2015

Joke Shop Man

I can understand why the typical person has problems with me.  I’m not a typical person, as you’ve probably gathered.  I don’t do what people expect another person to do, or look how another person is expected to look.  Several of these things are my own personal choice, some of them are not.

This doesn’t necessarily turn someone who is “unusual” into a misanthrope.  You know that you will not like everyone, and not everyone will like you.  You can factor in this knowledge into your daily dealings with people, and adjust your expectations.  That’s what I do, anyway.  If I find someone an utter cock, then I try to have as little to do with them as possible in order to save my own mood, if not sanity.  No, I can deal with regularly annoying people.

What I was surprised to discover, and nobody had actually told me about, is that other “unusual” people are no better than the “normal”.  In fact, they are quite often worse.  Much worse.


It was April 2000.  Hardly the greatest of times, and  indeed one to which few people would look back with much nostalgia.  I was a year into my so-called treatment for my alleged “mental illness”.  Of course, they don’t recommend you doing what you feel like doing, which is staying at home in a dark room waiting to go to sleep for 14 hours a day (though I’ve since discovered such things are much better for you than psychiatric medication and therapy).  No, they tell you to get out.  See the world.  Do stuff.  Interact with people.  Take your mind off things.

My night shift job at Asda limited my options a bit.  In the service industry, our motto is “Working Daft Hours Because You Don’t”.  Which is fine for most people, but for those of us who work atypical shifts, it can restrict your opportunities for a social.  Most of the time back then that didn’t bother me.

I’d somehow managed to latch onto a couple of people at the comics conventions I went to.  They, for some reason, thought it’d be a good idea to hold regular meets with other local comics fans in a pub opposite the Birmingham Hippodrome.  Attending, I worked out, was just about feasible.  Stoke to Birmingham was around 45 minutes by train, and even though I worked on Saturday night, I could get there and back in a reasonable amount of time.
I never got it quite right.  My sleeping pattern meant I only would get about 4 hours sleep if I was going to get to Birmingham in time for the 2pm start.  I usually achieved this by nailing wine or vodka in rapid time to knock me out.  I always made it there, but what state I was in when I got there, was at best variable.

I think I went four times in all.  Once I got so drunk in the afternoon, I was unable to work in the evening.  A calculation error, I gather.  I presumed excessive drinking was what you were supposed to do.  Well, everyone else was.  Another time I had a panic attack in the pub and just sat slumped in a corner while everyone stared at me.  The one trip I made when I was actually off work, I found I’d consumed too much to engage in reasonable conversation.  To compensate, I carried on drinking cans of Stella Artois on the train.  I’m sure you can see some kind of pattern developing here.  I wish I could have done the same 15 years ago.

I went one last time.  I’d realised that drinking a lot during the meet was probably not a good idea either for my mental health, or ability to socialise or even work later on.  I stuck to Coke.  I arrived early, as usual and after a brief chat with the second person to turn up, decided “Ah yes, I’ll write about this event for my website.  I’m sure people are curious about what exactly happens during these events”.  So as more people turned up I spoke less.  Never having been much good at group conversations or knowing much about what these people were talking about, I felt it best to keep quiet.

A word about the people attending these Pub Meets : They were not the typical comics fan you imagine, all Cosplay, nerding and pedantic.  No, these were the self-styled hipsters of comics fandom.  Trendy types, usually artists or writers running their own bizarre small press comics or zines.  Generally left-wing, open minded  and self-styled lovers of the unusual. I thought they would like me better.

I went home that evening thinking that at least I hadn’t got hammered or ended up a mental wreck, so it must have gone reasonably well.  I posted my article on the website and a link on the message board that I and the other people frequented.  Reading it back a few years later, I could see how it could have been construed as a bit crass and cutting in places, but no more than any of the rest of the stuff I wrote.

To say I got a hostile reaction…well…is a bit like saying Warren Buffett has a few bob tucked away.  I was shredded by them.  I was called a sad wanker, massively inappropriate and a complete and utter little shit.  So much for a niche community being understanding of outsiders, then.  I could take that.  I heard worse at school.  But what really upset me was one person (I forget who) saying “You come all this way and you don’t make any effort.”

No effort.  Right.

Did they not know what I had to do, what I had to go through and what I had to fight off to go there?  To make no effort would have been easy.  I could have stayed at home.  In fact, I probably should have stayed at home.   That was the nail in the coffin for me and my relationships with those particular people.  I’m always one who has to learn the hard lessons of life in the hardest way.

A couple of years later, I went to what turned out to be my last ever comics Convention, the 2002 Bristol Expo. I ran into a few of those people.  By “ran into”, I mean they sat at a nearby table.  They noticed me, and exchanged meaningful glances and giggles with each other,  a pattern of behaviour I recognise from school bullies.  They never said a word to me the entire day.  I guess it’s easy to courageously express your negative opinions about people when you’re behind a keyboard, and coincidentally well out of smacking range.  Easier to feel safe when in a group rather than alone, too.

As a great man once said “I say fuck people.  People ruin everything.”
Graphical version of the average Comics Pub Meet back then. Click for larger version.

Tuesday, 27 January 2015

Noises For The Leg

Offered without comment
I’m not sure where it all began.  You’d have to ask my parents.  But nearly 40 years is a long time ago.

I’ve often said, maybe even as much as half in jest that my parents were there for me when it really mattered – my conception.  There are many stories about this event.  Some of them may even be true.  I have heard it happened on a sofa somewhere, or on the Isle of Man, or maybe even behind the back of the Three Mariners in Lancaster.  But, whatever, it happened.

My parents did, of course not plan, for this.  Though they were vaguely aware of the mechanics of human reproduction, in my mother’s words they “never thought it would happen to us”.  So I was certainly unplanned.  As for “unwanted”, I have my own suspicions of what they thought at time, but I will leave you to speculate on these matters.

It was a cold, dark and rainy night in Preston when I was born.  Or at least I presume it was.  Nights are generally like that in Preston on December evenings.  The date was planned in advance.  An induced birth to ensure my mother was out of hospital before Christmas.  I was finally pushed out at 7:21pm on 8th December 1975, just in time for my mother to catch the 15th anniversary episode of Coronation Street.  My father presumably worked late to avoid being there until he absolutely had to be.


The world wasn’t quite as baby-friendly as it is now.  And both my mother and I spent the majority of time at home, at the time my grandma’s house near Preston town centre.   My father presumably took the bus or walked to work at his job at General Accident near Winckley Square,  leaving his wife and mother to sort everything else out.  Or perhaps not.

To say my mother and grandma did not get on is an understatement.  One of her main pieces of advice to all young women nowadays is “never live in another woman’s house”.  In fact, she even goes to far as to blame many of my “problems” (her euphemistic term for the myriad issues I’ve had to suffer and deal with for the last nearly four decades) on the stress she suffered having to live under my grandma’s roof for nine months in the mid-Seventies.  As I always say, I can’t discount the possibility, but it’s very convenient to blame somebody who’s been dead since 1986.

So, in the summer of 1976, while other people were sweltering,  drinking lager or being eaten by ladybirds, my mother was dragging my father (kicking and screaming, quite probably) to the estate agents in order to buy their own house.  They settled on a mid-terrace in the cheaper end of Fulwood, just north of central Preston.  Close enough for my father to travel to work, and yet far enough away from his mother so she couldn’t just pop in.  This is the first place I remember living in.


When I finally became ambulatory, sometime early in 1977, I’m guessing my parents had realised I wasn’t the typical child.  Wheras most small children cling to their mothers for safety and security, I sought time alone and generally engaged in solitary activities, either sanctioned or not by authority figures.  (This is presumably why my mother has always preferred my brother to me, as he was clingy and tactile, and indeed was still sitting on her lap at the age of twelve).  What I lacked in sociability, I made up for in ingenuity.  Numerous were the times I managed to escape from the house, once even dragging something to stand on to get to the door handle my two-year-old arms were as yet unable to reach unaided.  I, of course, was always blamed for this.  Which is easier for parents to deal with than the fact they weren’t watching a child who had a history of absconding.  It’s almost as if I wanted to get away from them.

My mother didn’t really know how to handle me.  I don’t think I was like any child she’d had to deal with before.  My father, on the other hand, knew exactly what he wanted from me.  He wanted me to be a man.  You’d have thought that my obvious breaks for independence would have made him happy.  But no, he had (and still has) a terrible temper and extreme lack of patience and empathy.  He had very fixed ideas of how children should behave (“seen and not heard” was his philosophy).  And if the child had the temerity not to match these standards, he just hit them.  Preferably round the head so they remember better.  One of the most vivid memories I have of my childhood is him doing this to me for some minor misdemeanour and my mother yelling at him “Don’t hit him on the head, hit him on the legs.”  I’m not sure whether I should find that funny or sad.  Or both.

My father and I have never been close, or even really on speaking terms.  We’re both adults now, me close to middle age and him close to old age, and we’ve yet to have a proper conversation about anything.  I don’t suppose it’ll ever happen now.  What in all honesty could we ever talk about?

I’ve been told by my mother he regrets the way he brought me up.  But he’d never tell me that personally.  No, he never would.  Sadly, life isn’t a human interest movie, and closure is rarely achieved.  All things considered, my father should be grateful I’ve turned out as well as I have.  But I doubt he even thinks about that.

I’m just something that happened, as some kind of accident.  A long time ago.