some musings after reading Hellboy & B.P.R.D.

The Universe that Mike Mignola has created is on the surface quite different from ours: Supernatural creatures are common-place, and the imagined mythological worlds of our collective unconsciousness, are, in his universe, all too real. Of course there are similarities as well, the upside of which includes: Good people trying to make a difference, people who aspire to challenge their limitations and fulfill their potential, some following what they believe to be preordained destinies, others determined to forge their own destiny, and of course their are pancakes. The less positive similarities include: Megalomaniacs, corrupt bureaucrats, neurotic egomaniacs, cruise missiles and yes, Nazi's.

There are some very obvious reasons to love Mike's universe, not least are those creative souls he has enlisted to help shape it: Dave Stewart, John Arcudi, Guy Davis, Duncan Fegrado, Ryan Sook, Richard Corben and Kevin Knowlan amongst others. There's also the strong premise and grand scale of the thing, along with believable, interesting characters, whose personal stories and relationships are never overshadowed by the literally, world shattering events.

But what really resonates with me is the family of outsiders at the core of this universe, a strong, sometimes dysfunctional, family, where the very things that make them 'other' are valued as their unique strengths. Hellboy: (a half Demon, half human, wise-cracking, slightly gruff hero. currently dead.). Abe Sapien, (a formerly human, currently humanoid amphibian). Liz Sherman: (Fire-starter.) Roger: (Homunculus. Deceased) Johann Krauss: (physically deceased, but his ectoplasmic form is housed in a specially designed body suit) Ben Daimio: (Were-Jaguar.) Kate Corrigan (non-stereotypical human) Andrew Devon (non-stereotypical human) and Panya; (an ageless Egyptian mummy). If you took away all the supernatural elements that embellish these characters, like with the work of Stephen King, you would still have one of the most interesting group of characters around... but with these other elements, wow.

I believe their may be some additional new characters, but I've only finished reading The fifth volume of the Hellboy library editions and the fourth and final volume of the Plague of Frogs arc, so can't comment on any more recent additions.

I was born an outsider.

I was born with severe Spina-Bifida, on the stroke of midnight, during a lightning storm, with (I imagine) the spirit of Frankenstein's creature watching over me. The doctors assumed I'd die within hours and told my Mother so. They agreed to give me three life saving operations, but with one proviso: My Mother would have to sign a form agreeing to let them experiment on me for as long as they thought necessary, it was 1960, people didn't argue with doctors then, they didn't know that was allowed. She signed the form.

I had the three required operations, and died twice, then eighteen other experimental ones by the time I was eight years old, I also died four times during those experimental procedures. There was also the many untested drugs, and experimental anesthetics. I am now allergic to  anesthetic and all antibiotics.

Even at age eight, the doctors were still telling my parents not to plan for my having a future.

My paternal Grandmother had similar ideas, having told my Father that a demon must have possessed him when I was being conceived. She called me the devils child, whose father was a demon. My Father believed her. By the time I was four and a half I'd survived five murder attempts and countless 'exorcisms' at his hands. I finally stopped him at this time by pretending I was really the devil. He became too scared to come near me. Hellboy would be proud.

I attended a 'special school' for disabled children. I  began to exhibit some unusual abilities beyond just being able to draw quite well for a four year old: A photographic memory, (memorizing the Oxford English dictionary in twenty minutes, and an extreme form of ambidextrousness, which allowed me to write with one hand and draw with the other at the same time, or even write consecutive pages, or draw two different pictures simultaneously. It was explained to me that being left handed was a sign of the devil, and bad for me, so my left hand was tied behind my back with my school tie during lessons. Having a photographic memory was also considered problematic, and I was told this would not only be considered 'cheating', but would also lead to my being bullied. I was forced to sight read. I'm now dyslexic. I also found I had a mild form of synaesthesia, but decided not to tell anyone.

By the time I was eight I'd rebuilt most of my nervous system with the paralysis now limited to my lower legs. I had an unusually strong upper body: I once grabbed a council worker who was harassing my mother and threw him over the garden gate, he was in his mid-thirties, and about sixteen stone, I was eleven years old and weighed in at eight stone. I also had unusually good reflexes, despite doctors tests showing them to be well below average. These proved useful in my martial arts training. I had gained my 5th level black belt (sash) in Diang-Qi-Tao Gung Fu by the time I was twenty four.

I grew up a loner, still on the outside even at the special school, more so when I entered mainstream education. I didn't start making real friendships till I was around fifteen. My first real, and life-long friend Mal, was also a bit of a loner, and 'got me' without my having to explain everything to him, it was also great to have someone other than my sister (also disabled) and myself to get out of scrapes. Having people assume Mal, tall and able bodied, was the one protecting me, when it was actually the other way around was interesting, and gave me a new perspective.

 I was socially awkward and needy into my mid-twenties. My art, and the need to prove that I had a right to make my mark in the world were my only companions for a lot of the time. The Gung-Fu training improved my confidence in many ways, but it was still just me and my teacher. He had me start Karate classes, he said it was to see how I how well I could cope with learning different skills at the same time, it was a complimentary style in which I gained a 1st degree black belt, but in hindsight I suspect that he was more interested in improving my social skills, There were around twenty people in the class at any given time, and courses with hundreds attending,  it worked, he was a wise man.

You can probably see why I might empathize with Hellboy and the B.P.R.D. The characters are believable, not idealized, their issues and motivations are a lot more complex than just feeling bad because they look different. They behave like real people, and react to extreme situations in believable ways, sometimes their training allows them to control the adrenalin sometimes not. They don't always like each other, or themselves. They don't always do the right thing, but they try. They certainly don't have all the right answers, or even the right questions. I'd join them in a second.

Hellboy and the B.P.R.D are equal to the best outsiders: Mary Shelly's Frankenstein creature, Gail Simone's Batgirl, Clive Barkers Night Breed. The Hulk, and others...

I can't wait to see what's next up for Mike Mignola's outsiders.

The Encyclopedia Man (an autobiographical short story)

I was sitting on the stairs by the front door. My five-year old self was trying to explain the finer points of becoming a Viking to my favorite Action Man figure. Sure he had the scar, and the muscles, I’d even converted his Australian soldiers uniform, ripping off the sleeves, and making a shield out of a beer mat, but to no avail, ‘You just aren’t mean enough, you wazzik’. I declared. That was when the knock at the door rudely interrupted my pep talk.
‘I’ll get it pet’ Mam called out from the kitchen, bursting through the side door, all flour and fluster. ‘Who can that be, the Green shield stamp man isn’t due till six!’ she pronounced loudly, well as loud as Mam ever pronounced anything.  She was making bread. Normally I’d be in there helping her, pounding the dough with my best Cassius Clay combo, but no, not today, no, I had a Viking invasion to organize, and only one Viking.

 Mam struggled with the latch as always, and opened the door. There he stood: a short  feral looking man. He had a rat like face with a long snout of a nose, damp hairs protruding out of, and small blue veins receding into, his flared nostrils. He was dressed like a Spiv, I’d seen them on the Telly, and they weren’t to be trusted. His faded pin-stripe suit was a size too big, and was all frayed around the edges. His shirt was unintentionally off white, with sweat stains around the collar, the kipper tie was covered in a repeat pattern of a woman in a white bikini, and yesterdays breakfast.

He smiled, large yellow teeth revealed themselves, he was licking them like a spitting snake, and looked my Mam up and down. I was to young to fully understand what that look meant, but new a threat when I saw one. My Dad made sure of that, and Mam had that same look she had when Dad had one of his moments... she was scared.

‘Is the man of the house in?’ He sounded like he looked.
‘No, can you call back later.’ replied Mam, and started to close the door. A large pointy shoe, overlaid with what I was later to discover was called a Spat (Originally a contraction of Spatterdashes) wedged itself in the doorway. ‘I’m on a schedule Missus, no time for return visits.’ He pushed the door open and squirmed past my Mam, he was carrying a large case with a stand attached. ‘I’ll not take long, I’m sure we can manage without the old man.’ He winked. He sat on the sofa that I had just hauled myself up on to, and opened the stand, then the case. He then pulled out a large Encyclopedia. ‘This’s only one of ten volumes of course, the rest are in the car.’

He flicked through all the pages, as if emphasizing just how much knowledge was contained in the huge tome. I watched closely then announced..
‘We don’t need one.’
‘Is that right young man, I’m sure your Mother takes your education more seriously than you do.’
‘That’s not what I mean.’ I replied angrily.
‘Why don’t you run along and play.’ he hissed, scratching around the small, blood speckled wad of tissue paper on his neck.
 ‘I can’t run.’
He took note of the fact my legs were encased in plaster casts, snorted, and adjusted his body so as to avoid further eye contact.
‘Wazzik.’ (a regional colloquialism for an idiot) I murmured under my breath.
‘Here, let me show you something.’ Do you know what a Basilisk is?’ before my Mam could respond I answered. ‘Its a mythological creature of the Hellenistic and Roman tradition. It is believed to be the destroyer of all animal and vegetable life.’
He looked a bit bewildered. ‘It’s rude to read over my shoulder young man.’ He recomposed himself. ‘ Ok, and let your mother answer this time,’ he growled, and raised the book to prevent me from seeing his next choice.
‘I didn’t look over your shoulder,’ I growled back.
He flicked through some more pages, ‘Conquistador.’ he pronounced. Any clue Missus?
Conquistador (Spanish: “conqueror”:) any one of the leaders in the Spanish conquest of the Americas,’ I replied.
Right little clever-clogs this one isn’t he, he laughed a course, forced laugh, and glared at me with bloodshot, watery, pig-like eyes. He was sweating now, and tugging at his collar.
Mam stood up and quietly pronounced, ‘You need to be leaving now, I have to finish baking, then get my husbands tea ready, he’ll be back from work soon.’ She lit a fag (cigarette) nervously. The man stared at the lit match, calmed momentarily, then shuffled some papers. ‘Well if you could just sign this to say I’ve shown you the product’.
‘The above has agreed to purchase one volume of the encyclopedia per month at a payment of £5.00 and 6 shillings.’ I quoted.
He laughed nervously. ‘That’s rude, and not the paper I was going to have your Mother sign anyway.’ he was trying not to shout.

‘I’m not signing anything.’ said Mam, stoking the coal fire, red sparks dancing excitedly, as she got more agitated. The encyclopedia man seemed mesmerized by the fire, as he reached in his pocket, and pulled out a tarnished silver- looking fag-case, dirt wedged in between the ridges embossed on the front. Inside were 10 Woodbines, held in place by an elasticated strap, another strap on the other side held filters. He took out a fag, tore off the filter which he placed back in the case, then took out a red, green and yellow box of Swans matches. ‘OK, ok! he sighed, his voice forlorn, as he struck the match on the side of the box, and stared at the flame, again lost for a few seconds.
Mam glanced at me nervously, I pointed a single figure at my temple and rotated it, and mouthed the word ‘nutter’, she smiled.

The match had nearly burned down to his fingers when my sister marched in from the kitchen. Arms bent in front of her, swinging, doing her best Shirley Temple impression - leading an invisible Jazz band, but looking more like Nancy, (the comic strip character by Ernie Bushmiller.) The Encyclopedia man, startled out of his reverie, quickly lit his cigarette, shook the match out, and flicked it into the fireplace, all the time watching my sister intently, as she stopped directly in front of him, but still marching on the spot.

‘It’s a long, long way to Tipperary’, she announced, ‘You smell bad... You have piggy eyes... I don’t like you, you clarty faa.’ (a regional colloquial insult meaning dirty tramp or similar) She turned around, and started marching away, she paused by the dining table, ‘I pumped,’ she said unapologetically, (a regional colloquialism for ‘breaking wind) and continued on her way to Tipperary, via the kitchen.
The Encyclopedia man sat back down, even though he had only half stood up, took a long draw on his cigarette, and sighed.

‘I’d apologize for my sister being rude, but she’s not, she’s just honest, and I didn’t read over your shoulder’, I repeated, ‘Volume 6 page 72, Pyromania: impulse-control disorder characterized by the recurrent compulsion to set fires.’ He looked at me unnerved, stubbed out his fag on his hand, and put it behind his ear and stood up. ‘I’m off, ‘yer all oot yer heeds.’ (out of your heads, mad)

I shouted after him, ‘According to the Oxford English Dictionary a Spiv is a particular type of petty criminal who deals in illicit, typically black market, goods of questionable authenticity, especially a slickly-dressed man offering goods at bargain prices.’

‘Leave me alone,’ he snorted and walked out the house as fast as he could, dragging his case behind him, still open, encyclopedia under his arm. ‘A flaming mad-hoose’, he shouted back.
Mam sat down on the sofa and sighed, ‘that photographic memory of yours does have its uses doesn’t it pet,’ she laughed.
‘Yeah, and I even got all the words in the right order,’ I declared proudly.

Two days, and one failed Viking invasion later, and I was sitting on the front step. I’d just got enough plasticine to add ears to my action man figure, I was making him into the creature from the black lagoon, and hoping he could swim. Mam is at the gate talking to Mrs Thompson from number four. ‘Did you hear about that Spiv, the one with the books’, exclaimed Mrs Thompson excitedly,
‘No, what happened.’ said Mam.
‘Well,’ she lowered her voice, ‘He parked down by the allotment, poured petrol on himself and set it alight.’
‘That’s terrible,’ whispered Mam, glancing back at me nervously, ‘is he dead?’
‘No, no, Terry the window cleaner was passing and threw a bucket of water over him, they’ve taken him to St Nicks.’
‘Must ‘ave been a Mackem,’ I said, making it obvious I could hear them. (A Mackem is derogatory term for someone from Sunderland)
‘Shush, Alan, he was obviously not well,’ said Mam, but suppressing a laugh, ‘hope the water was clean,’ she added turning back to Mrs Thompson. ‘Aye, we shouldn’t laugh, poor bloke. Alan could tell you know, that the bloke had a thing about fire, couldn’t know what it would lead too though.’
‘You have a special one there Nellie, that’s for sure. Cheeky little blather skite (regional colloquialism for someone who talks rubbish) sometimes, but special. Probably talks more sense than I did when I was a sprog.’

I turned back to my action man figure...

 ‘It was the secrets of heaven and earth that I desired to learn; and whether it was the outward substance of things or the inner spirit of nature and the mysterious soul of man that occupied me, still my inquiries were directed to the metaphysical, or in it highest sense, the physical secrets of the world.’
                                                                                (From Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein.)

‘Mam! I shouted.
‘Yes pet.’
‘Can I have two Banana sandwidgis, me invisible friend is hungry as well.’

Tomorrow, Bryan Talbot, comics creator extraordinaire, will be presented with an honorary
Doctorate of Letters for his body of work by Northumbria University at their
annual degree ceremony in Newcastle. He already is an honorary Doctor of
Arts, having received it four years ago from Sunderland University, making
him the first British comic creator to be awarded a doctorate twice. Way to go Bryan.

Being Human

Okay so it's called 'Being Human' has a cast of three, two men, one woman, all young and charismatic,  and, yes, most of the action takes place around a kitchen table, but a closer look reveals that neither of the male leads is a Vampire, nor indeed a Werewolf, and though the female lead does at one point find herself wrapped in a white sheet, and has indeed a beautiful haunting quality about her, she is certainly not a ghost, and this is not a theatrical version of that wonderful TV show, but an altogether different creature.

The title in this case comes from the final volume in a trilogy of books, each a collection of poems edited by Neil Astley, and published by BloodAxe Books. These anthologies have caused a revolution in poetry, showing that the much maligned literary form could be as accessible, entertaining and as relevant as its more popular counterparts. If there were still those who thought poetry to be, stuffy and incomprehensible, and best read allowed in the well modulated tones of a 1950's BBC newscaster, their numbers were dwindling fast in the wake of these books.

This powerful piece of theater, is the latest step in bringing these poems, and poetry in general, to a wider audience: It's cast: Benedict Hastings, Elinor Middleton and Barrett Robertson, have real chemistry, and bring the poems to life wonderfully. Everything from the direction, set design, sound design and lighting serve the work perfectly, nothing overwhelms the spoken word, only compliments and enhances.

We are taken on a journey from birth to death, and everything in between, vividly, with humour, drama, and lots of soul. Being Human is a great piece of theater with a big heart, and an even bigger mission, one that it seems to be succeeding in. I can't recommend it more highly.

Tour information can be found here: www.livepoetry.org

Creative Team

Being Human – Poetry in Performance is produced 
by Midland Creative Projects (Jonathan Davidson) 
and Bloodaxe Books in association with 
The Belgrade Theatre, Coventry, with funding support 
from Arts Council England.

Being Human is directed by Steve Byrne (Interplay, Leeds) 
with sound, lighting, video and design from Derek Nesbit, 
Janet Vaughan and Arnim Friess (Talking Birds) and 
technical/tour management by Alison Willcox.
Performers are Benedict Hastings, Elinor Middleton 
and Barrett Robertson.  

Benedict Hastings

Elinor Middleton

Barrett Robertson

The Assistant Producer is Antonia Beck. Tour Booking and 
Marketing is handled by Sharon Foster.

The performance text uses poems from Bloodaxe Books 
anthology, Being Human(March 2011). The poems
have been selected with the support of their Editor,Neil Astley 
and the performance concept has been developed with support 
from their Executive Chairman, Simon Thirsk.

This is the third poetry performance produced by Midland Creative 
Projects using poems from anthologies published by Bloodaxe Books
(the previous ones were Staying Alive, 2003; Being Alive, 2005 and 
Changing Lives, 2008/9).

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How Ray Bradbury saved my life (In 1964. on a rubbish tip, in Newcastle, by the Railway Track)

My Dad's logic went something like this: 'God made you a cripple, to punish me for my sins, so if I send you back to him after exorcising the Devils from you, he will forgive me'.

 I had an office to write and draw in, okay it wasn't a real office, but it was away from the house and my dad, and it was my secret place... yes it was on a rubbish tip by the railway line, and well yes, it was an old safe, with the door hanging off, but it was my old safe with the door hanging off. I had my Grandad's old mining helmet with a torch on the front for reading and drawing by, a rucksack full of supplies:- emergency banana: check; peanut butter sandwich: check; bottle of Sarsaparilla: check; Pens, pencils and paper: check; several issues of Famous Monsters of Film land, check; one copy of Alice in Wonderland, check. The walls, such as they were, were wallpapered with words, paragraphs, sentences and even whole pages, torn from magazines and books, my inspiration.
This was my haven... I'd wheel myself there everyday, on my makeshift wheelchair. The chair the hospital had supplied was an adult size wooden bath-chair, that smelled of old people, piss and disinfectant, and was so heavy that not even the combined efforts of Mam, Auntie Suzie, and Mr Henderson from number six, could shift it more than a few feet. Whilst my own makeshift version, adapted from an old luggage trolley was much better, though I had to push it along with my hands on the ground, a couple of shoe brushes strapped to them for protection and extra grip.

On this particularly wind-swept Sunday morning, I had slipped past the collective radar of the neighbours, who were on high alert, with instructions from my Mam, to keep me away from the railway track. She didn't want a repeat of the incident with the ironing board and the cabbage. I'd gone up the cut, parked the trolley in the long grass, and slipped though the gap in the wall, behind the Bergman's place, managed to avoid panicking the chickens, and made it to the office unseen.

I was working on chapter two of my new book 'The Creature from the Black Lagoon vs Alice in Wonderland. My process was as follows:- 1. Cut out random passages from Alice in Wonderland (a cheap paperback edition, not my illustrated hardback of course); 2. paste into scrapbook intermingled with chunks of the dialogue from The Creature from the Black Lagoon transcribed off of the TV;
3. copy the results into my notebook longhand; finally, re-copy into my hardback manuscript book, making changes where I felt they were needed, and adding a spattering of my favourite 'words of the week' culled from my dictionary. Hey you didn't expect it to make sense did you? I was four!

I was having a bit of a dark cloud day. Mam was taking my sister to hospital after Sunday lunch, as she was suffering with spasms in her bad hand, due to the cerebral palsy. I was to be left with Dad.

That meant that after they had left for the hospital either the Church of England Bible, or the Masonic Bible, would come out. The former was bad, the latter really bad... an exorcism was on the cards either way. It was hard to write or draw, my stomach was churning (butterflies? more like killer moths!) and my head felt like King Kong and The Frankenstein creature were having a punch up in it! I peeked out at the railway track, and found myself wondering if maybe I did just go back to 'God', then maybe that would make Dad feel happier, that he might stop hurting everyone. But there was a problem with this scenario... I didn't believe in God. If I died, Dad might not feel better, unless somehow something convinced him that 'God' had forgiven him, if it didn't, then he'd still hurt people, and I'd still be dead.

On the other hand... he wouldn't be able to hurt me anymore. I'd just stop, I wasn't going to heaven or hell, I was sure of that, maybe I'd be reincarnated like the Buddhists taught, but the pain would stop, wouldn't it? I started to crawl out towards the track, when I became aware of a piece of paper stuck to my plaster (I was in a plaster-cast up to my waist after my eighth operation) it was between the drawing of Marilyn Monroe I'd done in marker, and Pop Robson's (Newcastle United footballer) autograph. I un-crumpled it and read it out loud, as was my want.

'What does your character want, what is his dream, what shape has it, and how expressed? Given expression, this is the dynamo of his life, and your life, then, as Creator. At the exact moment when truth erupts, the subconscious changes from wastebasket file to angel writing in a book of gold.
 Look at yourself then. Consider everything you have fed yourself over the years. Was it a banquet or a starvation diet?
 Who are your friends? Do they believe in you? Or do they stunt your growth with ridicule and disbelief? If the latter, you haven't friends. Go find some.'
                                                                                        ©Copyright Ray Bradbury Enterprises 2012

Truth erupted! It wasn't my destiny to sacrifice myself for someone who had no regard for my dreams, someone who didn't believe in me. The nightmare scenarios and fears that took up the majority of space in the wastebasket of my subconscious, were transformed into... ideas, the stuff of stories, and thus stopped hurting. Soon I'd found a friend, admittedly he was an invisible one, made up, a blind superhero called Nocturne, but it was a start. I found a surrogate Father, okay so he was a Scarecrow in the field behind our house, but again, it was a start, and he was a great listener!

As for the Exorcisms, I started to fight back, with the help of Nocturne, and eventually I won, the abuse stopped as did the murder attempts. I survived and I thrived. It was another thirty five years before I discovered who wrote those words. I still don't believe in God, I do believe in the power of the imagination, the power of people to reach their potential against all odds and to tune in to the vast universe, or universes, and make a difference, as taught by us Buddhists, and yes I do believe that Ray Bradbury saved my life in 1964, on a rubbish tip, by a railway track in Newcastle. Thanks Ray.

This short memoir is dedicated to the memory of Ray Bradbury, and to all those writers who inspire me today including: Alan Moore, Neil Gaiman, Alisa kwitney, Gail Simone, Scott Snyder, Paul Cornell, Tony Lee, Marv Wolfman, Jeff Lemire, Jiro Taniguchi, Greg Rucker and Ed Brubaker amongst many others.

Please support my campaign to fund the printing of my new graphic novel.

R.I.P. Elisabeth Sladen

I'm re-posting this piece, slightly amended, originally a response to Tony Lee's moving article about Elisabeth Sladen. This time with some of the images from the annual. You can read Tony's article here. http://www.tonylee.co.uk/

Sarah Jane was ‘the’ companion when I was growing up. When I had the chance to write and illustrate a story for the Doctor Who annual, the first thing I did was start looking for photo-reference of Sarah Jane, even before I had a story in mind. I went to an old scrap book I had and found my clippings of Elisabeth Sladen from old issues of the Radio Times collected way back in my childhood. Photo’s I’d drawn countless times as a kid, I’d get pocket money off other kids at school in return for my portraits of their and my idol Sarah Jane. I had a serious shiver run down my spine as I drew her again for the Annual, knowing I’d be spreading her image again, but this time a bit further than the school yard. That was to be my last work on the Doctor Who series, but, I hope a fitting tribute, and a dream come true. R.I.P Liz, Sarah Jane lives on.