Have you been out today?

Roger Langridge, father of two, artist on the recent Marvel comic Fin Fang Four, co-creator of Zoot Suite and Knuckles the Malevolent Nun, auteur of Fred the Clown and publisher of his own weekly webcomic is afraid that we might think him lazy. As if. Nevertheless he's begun a blog of his illustration work to refute any such notion and for this we give thanks.

Only one entry there as I type this but apparently he intends to update daily.

This year's Christmas card/booklet - A Horrible Christmas, the tale of the Christmas party at the Bela Lugosi Memorial Home for Retired Monsters and Villains - is rolling off the production line even as I type. Some people may even receive their copies before Christmas, you never know.

Apologies in advance, though, to anyone reading this in, say, New Zealand. Sorry, Ruthy, late again.

Santa/Satan.

Saint Nick/Old Nick.

Coincidence? I think not.

I think I've finally had an idea for this year's Christmas card/booklet. Just hope I have time to get it all put together in time. It might happen. If so, this chap may be involved...



Hopefully he'll have cheered up by the end of it.

Incidentally, anyone reading this who normally gets a card from me but suspects I may not have their current address do please email me.

All my own work. No one else to blame.

A song

Caution: contains "singing".

Dreamed a dream last night that I was at some strange, possibly impromptu, outdoor performance given by the great Ivor Cutler. He was in fine voice and performing a new song (roughly in the same kind of style as Rubber Toy though, for those of you familiar with his work) which was quite the best thing he's ever done and had me laughing uproariously. It was quite brilliant, not just because I got to hear an Ivor Cutler song that doesn't even exist but also because in the dream he was clearly in good health which is, sadly, no longer the case in that inferior state that we call real life.

I think more artists should perform direct to our subconsciouses. No booking fees to pay on top of already exorbitant ticket prices, no travelling to smelly London because the artist can't be arsed to play the venue in your town, no getting stuck behind the tallest man in the world and only occasionally getting a glimpse of the drummer's left elbow. None of that rubbish, just a perfect gig by your favourite performer (even if he or she is long dead) while you remain in the comfort of your own bed, tucked in cosily beneath your super duper king-sized duvet. Bliss.

Tonight I shall be consuming large quantities of cheese and playing Tom Waits at a subliminal level of volume.