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[Catchphrases that needed some more work:]

Catchphrases that needed some more work:

                "Pucker up and kiss my axe!"

"The name's Slade. That's S-L-A-D-E – just like it sounds."

                "I'm too moist to kill!"

"The ABC Warriors are back – after these messages!"

                "Let's spoon!"

"Be pure! Be vigilant! Be on time in future!"

                "Oh my poor arses!"

You Tube Rapper gets gold chain 'hair' hooks surgically implanted into scalp

Who wears it better?

Well that was fun.
I hung around PJ's stall dressed as Mr. Grofaz until I was asked to leave.
Next time I'm coming as Chimpsky.
I may not be small, cute, and intelligent, but I have long hairy arms, a propeller beanie, and a catapult.
Once I make it up to the rafters they'll never get me out of there.

I read Milligan's Dare this evening and wasn't hugely impressed.
It's perfectly competent but no more than that. Maybe it would have had more of an impact if I'd been a dyed-in-the-wool Dan Dare fan. Dunno, really.
My verdict is that the art is unsuited to the story, although that's really just a matter of taste.
And the script? Either Milligan used to be cleverer than this or I used to be. Whichever it was, I preferred it that way. I kept looking for subtext and subversion and not finding them.

I'd be a fool to fault anyone's professionalism here – this is a well-made comic – but I feel that this is not a comic to deserve much appreciation from grown-ups.

I paid pocket change for this in the FP sale, so no regrets when it goes to the charity shop.

(Got Mission Of The Earthmen in the same sale, and even if the story happens to disappoint – gosh, it looks nice.)

If Shark & Pops are going to be singing duets late into the night, might I request '(Love Lift Us) Up Where We Belong'?

Like that, sort of thing?

Pretty much, except that the admin is blessedly on my side and largely shelters me from the uncaring system.
No: my problem lies in the plain old job-ness of the gig.
I just want to go on stage, do my academic rockstar thing, and disappear into a cloud of dry ice at the end. I don't need all this email and room-booking and syllabus-submitting hassle to harsh my vibe.

What are you doing this autumn?

Being paid actual money to stand up on my hind legs and talk history at people until winter sets in and I'm all historied out, at which point I will retire to my lair and indulge my habit for recreational cake.
It's the dream.
The tweed angels stand at my shoulder.

On the other hand, it technically counts as a job, and I've spent the last couple of days being reminded why I usually avoid having one of those.

Yesterday I bought a whetstone.
I spent a soothing evening at my kitchen table, listening to eighties hits and sharpening knives.
The neighbours describe me as a quiet type.

I had a little revelation today.
If you'd asked me a dozen years ago what my dream job would be, I'd have described what I'm actually doing this autumn.
I just didn't reckon it would involve so much aggravation and, y'know, work.

That is 100% the Business.

I know a fella called Ken and a fella named Eddy

Coincidence?
I don't think so.

Lacking a mail-order rifle, I throw stones at guys called Kennedy from an upper-storey window.
Lacking a passer-by named Kennedy, I'll settle for guys with great hair and/or glamorous wives.
Doesn't matter – I miss almost every time.
And that proves it was the Cuban CIA Mafia.

Shure look

Yerrah lookit.

(Although I might start saying, "Och aye the noo" just to confuse American visitors. It can replace the "Gott in Himmel" I use now.)

I thought hotties were made of munce rather than treemeat, though I may well be wrong.

My guess would be that treemeat would be for your deluxe gourmet hotties, as enjoyed by well-heeled citizens of discernment and suchlike bigshots. Classy hotties for classy people, y'know?

I usually stay away from Oirishisms, but have recently taken to saying 'Faith!' at odd moments.
I think everyone needs at least one irritating foible.
On the other hand – atheist or not – I can blaspheme as only a good Catholic can. I frown upon young people taking the Holy Name in vain, seeing as they've never been intimidated by scary men in black dresses or been forced to kneel their way through the Rosary (in Irish, even).

As for the Scots and their strange Scottish ways: I have eaten haggis and heard bagpipes, but never a jings, crivvens or helpmaboab caressed my ears on my one long-ago weekend in Edinburrow.
They just say 'fuck' a lot – much like normal people.