FOGHORN
The best of British cartooning talent
Issue 45
NEWS
FOGHORN Issue 45
Published in Great Britain by the Professional Cartoonists’ Organisation (FECO UK)
PCO Patrons Libby Purves Andrew Marr Bill Tidy Martin Wainwright Foghorn Editor Bill Stott tel: +44 (0) 160 646002 email: billstott@lineone.net Foghorn Sub-Editor Roger Penwill tel: +44 (0) 1584 711854 email: roger@penwill.com
FOGHORN The magazine of the Professional Cartoonists’ Organisation (FECO UK)
As the ash cloud of coalition settles over the political landscape and Labour spinners wonder if Ed Balls needs a name change before becoming Party Leader, PCO continues to chip away at editorial indifference, flagging up the Observer’s strange behaviour by delivering same into the vice – like grip of Mr Wheen’s view of things newspapery in the Eye’s “Street of Shame”. Shrewsbury’s been and gone, garnering pro – cartooning pieces in the Grauniad and Times from two of our
very active Patrons, Martin Wainwright, and the wholly inimitable Libby Purves. And Bloghorn continues to keep its intelligent, gimlet little eye on media movers and shakers. Meanwhile, here’s your latest Foghorn which seeks to ignore all that by suggesting that its good to be ever so slightly deranged. Bill Stott, Foghorn Ed
Foghorn Layout/Design Tim Harries tel: + 44 (0) 1633 780293 email: foghorn@procartoonists.org PCO Press Office email: media@procartoonists.org Web info PCO (FECO UK) website: http://www.procartoonists.org BLOGHORN http://thebloghorn.org/
What is Foghorn? British cartoon art has a great, ignoble history and currently boasts a huge pool of talent. It deserves a higher media presence than it currently enjoys. Our aim is to make sure it gets it. We want to promote cartoon art domestically and internationally by encouraging high standards of artwork and service, looking after the interests of cartoonists and promoting their work in all kinds of media. Copyright All the images in this magazine are the intellectual property and copyright of their individual creators and must not be copied or reproduced, in any format, without their consent. Front Cover: Andrew Birch Back Cover: Liam Saunders Foghorn (Online) ISSN 1759-6440 Glossop Watch: 3
“To think it was me who suggested you took up an interest in basket weaving...”
An exhibition entitled Rude Britannia recently opened in Tate Britain, and runs there until September 5. The exhibition
explores British comic art from the 1600s to the present day. Bringing together a wide array of paintings, sculptures, film and photog-
raphy, as well as graphic art and comic books, the exhibition celebrates a rich history of cartooning and visual jokes. www.tate.org.uk
“A stick of rock, cock?” by Donald McGill
2 THE FOGHORN
FEATURE CLIVE COLLINS
Clive Collins
Money In The Wrong Hands Leaving aside the current run with the 118 118 strip in Metro, I’ve never been what you might call successful in the advertising side of our profession. Apart from a brief encounter with Tony Cuthbert – upon which the laws of libel prevent me from elaborating – I’ve tended to stay on my side of the electric fence, grazing contentedly in my semi-fallow little field. Then, one day long ago, I received a phone call from the J. Walter Thompson agency. The girl checked that my name was Clive, and said that Shloer were launching an apple drink and they’d very much like me to pop along to see them, and discuss a daily strip. Chipper as any old thing, I duly turned up and met the Art Director and his team, and the way they kept emphasising the name ‘Clive’ when they addressed me chuffed me no end. They wanted a family created: Mum, Dad, Boy, Girl and a Grandparent. The scripts they gave me were witty and pithy and virtually drew themselves, and when they told me what they were prepared to pay, my eyes watered with pleasure. They told me to go away and draw up a half-dozen roughs for them, and once approved, I’d go straight to the finishes. This I did and spent most of the night up in the studio, drawing and re-drawing until I was sure I’d done exactly as they’d wanted. At the meeting the following day, they were enthusiastic about the roughs, but in that strange way that a wife is enthusiastic when you’ve gone ahead and painted the woodwork without having discussed things with her first - like the colour. WWW.PROCARTOONISTS.ORG
I wondered if maybe they’d had bad news overnight, but they said nothing and told me they’d booked me into a hotel in Mayfair in order that I should prepare the finishes for a meeting the following morning. I was laden down with pens, paper, board and anything else they thought I might need, and sent me on my way. I passed the night in a flurry of work, creeping down to breakfast at 7.00 next morning, before slipping across the road to the agency. The meeting was affable, and though there was still that odd, sinking air of zen enthusiasm that I couldn’t quite put a finger on, they passed the drawings, and I was given six more to draw, this time at home. One of those present at the meeting suggested some sort of wacky addition to the little boy – like drawing him with a glove puppet on one hand, which would always feature in the strip. It wasn’t referred to in any of
the scripts, but then, I wasn’t privy to the way that admens’ minds worked. At least I wasn’t then. And so we went on for a month – I supplied them with artwork exactly to the brief, and they continued to shuffle their feet and smile in that annoyingly embarrassed fashion. It wasn’t until the beginning of the second month – at which time the strips were due to appear to coincide with the launch – that I began to wonder why I’d been issued with no further scripts, and the urgency seemed to have evaporated. I phoned the girl who’d phoned me in the first place, and who was now what you might call ‘evasive’. Finally, after a lot of smooth-talking and poodle-fakery, she came clean. “You’re not who we thought you were,” she said. “We were looking for Clive.” “Well I am Clive,” I argued. “Yes,” she went on. “But we thought you were the Clive in the Evening Standard.” And then it dawned on me. At that time there was a strip called ‘Clive’ drawn by Dominic Poelsma and written by Angus McGill. It involved a boy, his sister and the family. The strip later changed its name to ‘Augusta’ - the name of the daughter, as she became the dominant character - and I was dumbstruck that a major agency would make such a mistake. They paid me – extremely well as it turned out - and I didn’t have to sign any sort of official secrets document swearing not to tell. Oddly enough, Dominic Poelsma’s style was perfect for the strip and it ran very successfully. THE FOGHORN 3
BLOGHORN
Will draw for drinks
Bloghorn’s Royston Robertson stays up way past his bedtime. Revellers at the Groucho Club, London’s premier trendy media hangout, found something to distract them from the anti-climax of the General Election on May 6th: live cartooning. Members of the PCO, the organisation which runs the Bloghorn (and prints Foghorn. Ed), were on hand to draw cartoons in an informal capacity – is there any other way in the Groucho Club? – on the subject of politics and the election, as well as drawing live caricatures. The cartoons were then pinned up on the walls, showing up the Emins and Hirsts. Cameras are not permitted in the Groucho, and the cartoonists went untroubled by the paparazzi outside the club, so there is no photographic record. Instead, we offer you some fine drawings of the assembled scribblers by Wilbur Dawbarn. Much fun was had by all, even if there was still no conclusive result in the election by throwing-out time at 4am. But, who knows, we may be back there for the next election in a matter of months … If you have visited London at all over the past few weeks, you can’t fail to have noticed all the painted elephants dotted around the city. They are there thanks to Elephant Parade, a conservation campaign highlighting the plight of the endangered Asian elephant. More than 250 of the life-size models have been decorated by artists of all disciplines, one of them (right) by PCO member Rosie Brooks. Rosie told us: “I really enjoyed this project as I was working in a studio with five other artists. It was the two weeks leading up to Christmas last year and we had our own stereo to block out the shopping centre’s jing4 THE FOGHORN
ly christmas music.” Running from May to July 2010, the parade, which is run by the charity Elephant Family, is London’s biggest outdoor art event on record. With an estimated audience of 25 million, they aim to raise £2 million for the Asian elephant and benefit 20 UK conservation charities. All of the elephants will be sold at auction and you can bid for them online at www.givinglots.co.uk (Rosie’s is No. 213: Elefun) Mini elephants are available at branches of Selfridges or at the Elephant Parade online shop. Rosie is no stranger to large-scale charity art projects, working on a
similar project called Cow Parade, and painting a model guitar for London Guitar Town. Her design was picked by Sir Paul McCartney. He liked it so much he asked her to paint a real one, which has since made an appearance in his live act.
Royston Robertson WWW.PROCARTOONISTS.ORG
FEATURE LADY VIOLET
Random acts of humour Foghorn’s very own ‘Agony Aunt’ Lady Violet Spume, answers your nasty little personal problems. (Dictation by Lady Violet’s private secretary Clive Goddard)
“I think Arthur’s really captured the moment...”
A serious discussion of humour Andy Davey goes back to College.
To the glorious surroundings of toonists like Gillray and Newton. Pembroke College, Cambridge, An unexpected bonus was a short for a learned and earnest discus- talk by the remarkable polymath sion of humour in art. Loyd Grossman (yes, that one) The conference featured two key- on Babar the Elephant, the muchnote addresses: one by Robin Si- loved French cartoon strip, delivmon, editor of the British Art Jour- ered with a liberal sprinkling of nal and author of Hogarth, France wit – a dangerous weapon to use and British Art, and a second by in the groves of academe. Quentin Blake on his approach I was keen to explore the reato humour and how it informs his sons for the apparent distaste for work, especially his recent 70ft the British to embrace the study mural for Addenbrooke’s Hospital or appreciation of cartoons as an depicting Cambridge University’s art-form, wondering whether it was connected to a wider disdain 800-year history. Unfortunately, due to deadlines for the art-form here by serious art of the crust-earning variety, your mavens, while continental Europe correspondent missed both talks, holds it high. but there was plenty else to tickle Over coffee, I unfairly ear-holed the synapses. It was an interesting poor Professor Jean Michel Massdeparture for a humble practitio- ing of the History of Art deparner to go back and be enveloped ment to find out. His off-the-cuff by the warm, crusty embrace of explanation was that there was academe; a delightful chance to no inherent disdain, it was simply enjoy in-depth reflection on our down to lack of money to initiate art-form. It was a true cartoon research projects. nerd’s paradise (in the nicest posYour correspondent respects the sible way). learned proTopics ranged fessor’s pitch from Shangfor funding, hai art-deco but reserves cartoons to a judgment, study of the while retirAfrican woming to scratch an as muse for his beard and Quentin Blake mural, King’s College, Georgian carthink. Cambridge (Pic: King’s College) WWW.PROCARTOONISTS.ORG
Dear Lady Violet, My husband and I are rather worried about this new colation thing and all those horrid liberals worming their way into government. Margaret from the wool shop says it’s the thin end of the wedge. Can you say anything to reassure us that we’ll not all be murdered in our beds and made to be homosexuals? Worried of Taunton Lady V: Dear Worried of Taunton, I’m afraid there is very little I can say by way of reassurance, except perhaps that of all our proud nation’s strongholds of family virtue, Taunton will be among the last to crumble. In the meantime I advise wearing stout undergarments and purchasing a few bear-traps for the lawn and herbaceous borders. Dear Lady Violet, I pride myself as being quite proficient in the kitchen, especially my baking which has won the praise of both the Lady Mayoress and Mr Jenkins of the rotary club. However, my husband flatly refuses to try any of my baked goods unless I observe strict rules in its preparation. He insists that I wear a floral pinny, tie my hair in a bun and have a small smudge of flour upon my cheek. He then sits at the kitchen table and watches me cook. Is this normal? Anita Harris (not that one) Balding, Lincs. Lady V: Dear Anita, This is most certainly not normal behaviour but is what doctors call ‘Felicity Kendall Syndrome’. Your husband might respond positively to a special batch of laxative scones and a vigorous cuff about the ear. THE FOGHORN 5
FEATURE RUPERT BESLEY
This is your caption speaking by Rupert Besley. A history teacher of mine had a canny way of keeping classroom discipline. Instead of detention or lines from the Bible to scribe in scratchy dip-pen, he would seize on the excuse offered for crime and hand over a sheet of card on which the offender had to write out said excuse, along with others, in large letters to decorate the classroom wall. The resulting posters were a sight more entertaining than the Repeal of the Corn Laws or Growth of the British Constitution and, to be honest, the placards were quite fun to complete. But the system worked. Next time you failed to get an essay in on time, you could point to Chart III, excuses 1, 5 & 7. And, in that same moment, you realised just how feeble, thin and unoriginal these were. All had been tried a million times before. One that stuck in my mind (from the list of Unplanned Classroom Disturbances) was, ‘It Slod Off’. These words nearly brought an early end to my own foray into teaching some while later. Ten years on, while I chalked French verbs on to a blackboard in Ventnor, there was a mighty crash behind as a bold attempt on the World Jenga Record for French dictionaries fell to the floor. Amid the wreckage the perpetrator stared back at me, all innocence and mock surprise. He had been plotting my downfall for weeks. ‘It slod off,’ I muttered half-aloud to myself. A look of triumph spread over his weaselly face. ‘’E told me to Sod Off,’ he announced to the class. My thoughts exactly, but not what I had said. That’s the trouble with words: they are so easily misheard, misread, misrepresented. Hands up 6 THE FOGHORN
anyone that has ever had a cartoon ruined by some interfering editor who has altered the caption, changed the meaning, printed last week’s line... Right, you can all put your hands down now. Fluffed lines, miscues and typos are all grist to the cartoonist’s mill (think Bill Tidy’s glorious Great Ball of China), but it’s still a pain when it happens to you and your carefully crafted words. For some years I did postcards for J Arthur Dixon Ltd, who employed an illiterate to copy my captions and add in all his own spelling mistakes. It was that which strengthened my resolve wherever possible to hand-write my own captions, incorporating them into the drawing such as to give protection from the predatory attention of a junior editor. My own handwriting is totally illegible, especially to me, but I’ve worked out a form of sub-Thelwellian American Typewriter-style lettering that allows for jaunty irregularities to elbow you in the side and say, Hey, this is meant to be funny. Comics lay down strict rules for caption-lettering and rightly so. Where there is much to read, it matters that the text is clean and clear, following standard rules and not getting in the way of story or artwork. But gags are different; anything goes. That’s the joy of cartoons - there is no right or wrong. Innovation is all. One such is Steve Bell’s trademark use of heavy and bold for words in emphasis. I’ve no idea how much this is his own invention or, as elsewhere in his work, a case of brilliant adaptation of
age-old devices from Beano and Whizzer to political cartooning. But it’s a ploy that neatly captures the mode of Thaatchi-reared politician trained in meaningless buzzword and soundbite. A few captions have made it into the language (the curate’s egg and all that), but it’s hard to see a single gag having such power these days - not unless fronting some global marketing campaign and proliferating on t-shirts. But modern successors of the gag do manage it, whether in the form of syndicated strips like Peanuts (It was a dark and stormy night...) or animations like The Simpsons. Doh! And if ever, for old times’ sake, I reach for felt-tip and sheet of card on which to write out great captions to decorate my wall, I’ll no doubt begin with Thurber or Larson (Poodles of the Serengeti), before moving on to Glen Baxter. And high on my list would have to be that lovely line deployed by Dave Follows over 7,000 strips in 20-odd years, May un Mar Lady. Says it all really.
FEATURE NEIL DISHINGTON
Letters to the Editor Snail Mail: The Editor, Foghorn Magazine, 7 Birch Grove, Lostock Green, Northwich. CW9 7SS E-mail: billstott@lineone.net
Low-brow Dear Editor, Whilst I understand that your magazine has no political pretensions and concerns itself with low - brow stupidity, I am surprised that at this time of democratic betrayal, it has not pointed the acid finger of satire towards Quisling Clegg. If you dare, you might make mention of the Great Glossop Sandal Burn [5-6 June]. Many members of our local party, including my wife, will be also shaving off their beards on that occasion. Yours etc., Dr E.K.I.Thump
None shall pass!
Neil Dishington is feeling very insecure. Just read an article in a paper I draw for, I thought it was just me! Quote “I am sick to death of passwords…” it goes on. Me too! I have enough trouble remembering who I am, let alone... six passwords. This bloke has fifty of the ***** things! I can’t remember any of mine, but you are not supposed to write them down or put them on your mobile. I do write them down in a secret place... so secret that I forget where I have written them down! I do know it is to do with ageing,but whoever devised all this stuff should remember that there are more... more mature people than young people, or there soon will be. Banks and their ilk
should be making our lives easier. The bloke who wrote the article is about thirty... yours sincerely... b*****! Who am I?
Random acts of humour
Failing Memory Dear Editor, I wonder if you could help me. I saw a cartoon, years ago now, which really made me laugh. It had a man and a woman in it and the man was saying something to the woman, and it was really funny, but I can’t remember what it was. It was in a magazine. Or possibly a newspaper.
“I’m just going outside and may be some time.”
Best wishes Emily Broadbean [Mrs]
Fuzzy thinking Dear Editor,
Does anyone have a razor I can borrow? Sincerely yours Mrs E.K.I.Thump WWW.PROCARTOONISTS.ORG
“You were the last person I expected to fall down on the job, Trubshaw.” THE FOGHORN 7
THE POTTING SHED
The Potting Shed with Cathy Simpson. “Summer’s here and the time is ripe for plantin’ in the street!” Well, the world didn’t seem ready for that “brand new beet” - but here at the Foghorn Potting Shed we’re ready to sink our teeth into your planting problems! Gordon Honkmonster, Binkie Homebrew and Euphorbia Marmelade are all on hand; with his good hand in the postbag is Alan Goatrouser. So we kick off with a letter from Major Murgatroyd Whistlepostlethwaite (Rtd) of Pype Hayes, who’s having problems with his privet hedge. He writes: ‘Seventy two years I’ve had this hedge, man and boy, and never a moment’s trouble with it. Then, blow me if it didn’t start sprouting leaves of the most extraordinary colours. Quite put me off me cocoa. What’s so dashed mysterious is that they spell out messages – quite obscene ones at that. Problem seems to get worse when that gang of ‘doodies’, or is it ‘hoodies’, hang around the street with their spray cans. What can I do to restore my hedge to its former glory?’ Gordon’s got a glint in his eye … and he’s onto it straight away … ‘Well, really, we’ve got two problems here, haven’t we? Firstly - there’s the question of the, er, hoodies, and secondly - how to stop your hedge displaying obscenities. The first is a difficult one, given that it’s now illegal to peg the little blighters out on your lawn overnight and spray them with liquid manure – which always used to be a very satisfying response. But that’s EU Regula8 THE FOGHORN
tions for you. So, you can either call your local police, or see if you can borrow a leopard from a friend and keep it chained to your front gate for a week or two. The latter’s probably more effective. As regards the hedge, take a small cutting of leaves of your preferred colour and get along to anywhere which sells car paint, find a good match and spray over the obscenities yourself. You’ll never know the difference!’ Yes, it’s very important that gardening keeps up with the times, and it seems that not only teenagers but our so-called wildlife is getting cheekier, too. Here’s a serious plea from Morgana Sutherland-Wyndebagge of Biggleswade: ‘I put up hanging baskets, but the birds keep pinching the lining. They even got Auntie Doris’s Christmas jumper, which I’d used to line the basket with the ornamental trailing potatoes, and I could have sworn that a robin’s taken my prize petunias and made a decorative canopy round the opening of their nest box. I’ve tried putting out nesting materials for them, but they just laugh at me. Or that could be the hyena next door, I suppose. What shall I do?’
your line! It might soften the blow a bit if you just plant your hanging baskets with things you don’t like, so that their gradual death will be less painful. Dandelions and ground elder would be good for starters.’ So – that really get to the heart of wildlife gardening, doesn’t it? Excellent show! Finally, just a quick response to a text message we’ve received from Maisie Tonkers, aged 8. ‘No, you mustn’t throw your little brother into the pond to get that ball he kicked in there. Especially not if it says ‘Danger – Deep Water’. No, just get your mum to buy you another ball, there’s a dear …’ She’s just as keen as ever, that one – real gardener of the future! Well, that’s all we’ve got time for today, but keep those letters coming. We’d also like to reiterate that these are all genuine and there is no truth in the rumour that The Foghorn Potting Shed is merely a vehicle for contrived, often double-barrelled names.
Binkie’s shaking her head. ‘Sadly, I think you’re going to have to live with this one. You could replace your existing hanging baskets with artificial ones, but if they’re that ruthless with Auntie Doris’s Christmas jumper, just imagine what they’ll do to any washing you put up on WWW.PROCARTOONISTS.ORG
FEATURE TIM HARRIES
Random acts of humour
Tickling the Ivories I’ll be at the back if anyone wants me, says Tim Harries.
“Don’t blame me because your computer doesn’t work. All I did was tidy up that whole mess of wires at the back.”
“Every time I think I’ve made some progress I end up back in this class.” WWW.PROCARTOONISTS.ORG
Watching the BBC series “I’m in a Rock ‘n Roll band!” recently (very enjoyable it was too) I was slightly disheartened to see a long held but unspoken belief of mine confirmed. They dedicated entire episodes to the Singer (CV: Swaggers around a stage barely large enough to hold ego), the Guitarist (CV: Ability to play tedious 10 minute solos while swigging from a bottle of Jack Daniels) and the Drummer (CV: Hits things very hard and occasionally on time), while the Bassist and Keyboard Player were relegated to an episode entitled ‘The Other One’ (which they ignominiously shared with Bez from the Happy Mondays (CV: dance like a monkey on ecstasy while pretending to shake maracas). I can’t speak for bassists, but as someone who occasionally tickles the ivories, it was disappointing but not unexpected to see us relegated to the sidelines, (or indeed completely off stage, hidden behind a stack of amps next to the roadie who sorts out the M&M’s for the singer - “remove all the blue ones or the tour’s off!”). Despite the best efforts of 70s rock gods like Rick Wakeman and Keith Emerson, large gold capes and spinning grand pianos couldn’t hide the fact that keyboards just aren’t.. well... just aren’t cool, man! You’ve got no chance to strut the stage, like those smug singers and guitarists, and you’re left to simply seethe from behind your bank of organs, synthesisers and pianos while they raise a leg on the monitor and adopt the perfect ‘Rock Pose’ to get all the girls in the front row hot and bothered, and all the boys in the front row hot and confused. And while the rest of the band are off with the groupies, the best you can hope for is a speccy nerd asking to look at you appegiator. (“Ooh, do
you use subtractive or additive synthesis?”) Of course, it’s not like keyboard players haven’t attempted to get out there and play the frontmen at their own game, using strange hybrid devices like the ‘Keytar’ (“it’s a keyboard ... you hold like a guitar! What dark magik is this?”) to enable maximun stage prancing. It doesn’t work due to one major drawback: you look like an absolute pillock. I’ve tried one, and it must take nerves of steel to go out on stage with it, stand next to the guitarist and not immediately apologise to your audience. (“This thing? I’m sorry, the legs fell off it. Had to gaffer tape it to my shoulders...”) I’m generalising of course - there are those who can take any instrument and still look the ‘Rock Star’. Case in point - if you go on YouTube, there’s a sublime clip of The Edgar Winter Group performing their uber hit ‘Frankenstein’ on The Old Grey Whistle Test. It’s over nine minutes long, so not for the faint hearted, but contains scenes of joyous and unbridled noodling from Edgar and his portable keyboard. He’d probably apologise for the clothes he’s wearing, but for putting the keyboard front and centre? Nope! In the words of Whispering Bob... “Amazing” THE FOGHORN 9
THE TREVELYAN FILES
The Trevelyan Files Chapter Two left our eponymous hero surrounded and weaponless. But fear not this issue’s guest writer Rupert Besley brings us the next thrilling installment...
Mansard Trevelyan swallowed hard and felt for his Knackerthwaite. Or would have if he could have. The barrel of steel pressing into his gullet allowed only half a swallow and ruled out downward fumbling. Instead, Trevelyan slid a Liquorice Imp out of his cheek pouch and settled back to assess the situation. This was something they had taught him at Uxbridge. Out in the blackness, the goods train had clanked to a halt and was making those farting and whistling noises that come from trains when they stop. Behind lay the slurry pits, watched over by Demenzia’s gruesome trio up from The Smoke. Close by, loose paper flapped on the creaky board advertising Spitcock’s Laxatives. Superfluous, in the circs. And closer to, beyond the barrel, crouched a masked figure in combat The Gallery
fatigues. One arm held the gun to his throat; the other waved a small knife, on which the moonlight danced. There was something familiar about that outline, about those menacing eyes. It was the perm, in battleship grey, that gave all away. “Dear lady -” he began. The barrel drove hard into his epiglottis. “Sorry. Ma Nubbins, if I’m not mistaken -” Mansard Trevelyan was not mistaken. Forty years of turning the mincer and stuffing pies in Gristlethorpe Bakery had left Maisie Nubbins with biceps and upper-body strength that were the envy of polevaulters from five counties. “Agent Lara to you,” she snarled, “and less of the fancy talk, Mr Fancy Pants Trevelyan.” Agent Lara? The Lara? Beadlets of sweat broke out on the Trevelyan brow, as he recalled the nights in which he had fantasised such proximity with Lara, her slim body between the sheets alongside his, Harris Tweeds flung carelessly to the floor. “Anyway, it’s Gorbal, not Nubbins,” she continued. “I come from a long line of herring-gutters. Forty a minute I did as a girl. Disembowelling is what I do. We never had fun in my time. You sees them floosies out these days,
... but only with your help! Here’s your chance to contribute to Foghorn! If you fancy your hand at writing a future chapter of The Trevelyan Files, let us know! email us at foghorn@procartoonists.org
B r e a k i n g news... Reports are reaching us of another raid on Glossop Pangolin Sanctuary. This one appears to be the work of misguided animal rights activists. The Glossop pangolins have been targeted in the past by several groups including one composed entirely of covert industrial chemists seeking pangolin earwax, an important constitu-
10 THE FOGHORN
not a stitch on them, out on the lash. Well, Mr T, it’s time for me to have my fun.” Trevelyan felt a splash on his boots. “I’m not the shape I was,” she went on,” but you, Mansard, you’ve still got a body on yer. Get ‘em off, d’ye hear me! NOW!” Eyes ahead, Trevelyan released the thornproof trouser fastening and bent down to tackle his garters. His probing fourth finger found the raised button of the sock suspender, slid down and across and then pressed hard to activate. He heard the chemicals sizzle and knew he had less than one second to wait... To be continued!...
ent part of Glasgow rough cider, or as it’s better known to us, Cilit Bang. So far ten animals have been sighted on moorland near the town. Their last known positions have been ringed in the picture above. The creature’s unique camouflage is amply demonstrated. WWW.PROCARTOONISTS.ORG
CURMUDGEON
Piece by piece I suppose its all to do with patience, as in spiders or bonsai horticulture, or jigsaws. Yes! Jigsaws. Childhood visits to my Granny’s invariably included those dread words, “I know! let’s do a jigsaw. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Being a polite little boy, I’d say, “Oh yes Granny,do let’s!” [runs about in small circles] whilst thinking, “For God’s sake ! I’d rather sit next to June Wilkinson at school!” [sadly, June smelt very strongly of pee] But I didn’t say that. I pretended to be interested in the mind – numbing process of methodically sorting all the knobbly bits into blue for sky, green for grass, brown for manure… Gran was keen on farmyard scenes and would occasionally trill, “Ooh ! I think I’ve got a bit of a cow’s leg” One awful day I was given a jigsaw to do on my own. It had lots of sky in it. All the same blue. So I speeded up the process with the aid of a pair of sewing scissors and cut off all the sticky – out bits which didn’t fit first time. I was a non – person for months. But I just didn’t see the point. Why cut up a perfectly good picture then have to spend hours putting it back together and even then to end up with an inferior version of the original, all WWW.PROCARTOONISTS.ORG
covered in silly wiggly lines? Or, in my case, holes. Which brings me rather neatly to TV’s Masterchef. Without wishing in any way to trespass on Critic Dredge territory, I really must get this out of my system. You know the programme – a group of cooky wannabes are given cooky things to do by a bald geezer and somebody called Corrode… OK? Now, these wannabes are pretty damn good… “Cheryl has made swan’s tonsils in a truffle and marmalade sauce with an octopus goolie side salad and pan – fried pebbles”…all of which is painstakingly presented, arranged and composed... Not content with that, the sweating wannabes must then produce a dessert course. These are stunning. Beautiful pieces of sculpture, set on expensive china like miniature installations. Food Faberge. What happens then? The bald geezer and his corroding chum EAT IT, that’s what! They bloody EAT IT!
Alright, they do get all gushy about the texture of the dessicated twigs complimenting the big bold flavour of the wildebeest, or how the tequila really brings out the honesty of the spotted dick, but then they attack these jewel – like structures with their eating irons and actually consume them! Not so very different from cutting up Constable’s Haywain into 500 squiggly little pieces. ‘Course, the big difference is that reconstruction will be nowhere near as accurate. Apart from the odd olive pip, perhaps.
THE FOGHORN 11
CARTOONS NOEL FORD
Cartoons by
“We’d like you to develop his natural potential as a soloist - we’d hate to see him end up teaching!”
“Okay guys - you’re on...”
“Look, silly, here’s where you’re going wrong!” 12 THE FOGHORN
“Have you tried switching it off and back on again?” WWW.PROCARTOONISTS.ORG
THE FOGHORN GUIDE TO
As ever, your PCO Guide tackles the unfathomable. Equestrianism is a posh word for the simpler and more down – home term, “horseriding” which suggests certain essentials, e.g., a horse, a field, a stable, a rider, and the ability of the latter to remove vast quantities of shit. Or, if you’re rich, the ability to employ a shit – shifter. Or if you’re the Queen, lots of shit – shifters. Ownership of a wheelbarrow or skip lorry helps in this regard. But that dear reader, is the simpleton’s view! This brief guide seeks to help and forewarn the idle cartoonist who, lolling about eating cake and turning down begging editors, might seek a new relaxation via equestrianism. First, the horse. You will note “horse”, not “pony”. A pony is not merely a little horse. Many are little bastards, but horses they are not. A horse is something which looks very like a pony but is bigger. Even at a distance. They share certain characteristics. Both tend to have four legs [unless you’ve been sold a real nail], eyes, ears, noses [one], hair, teeth and in many, a peerless ability to emit mighty, ground-shaking farts. Ponies stop being ponies when they stand 14.2 hands at the whithers. “Hands?” “Whithers?” Later, later… Pony ownership is a mainly female thing. Mums who never had a pony when they were kids introduce their daughters to riding at an early age, said offspring having already been softened up by toys like “My Little Pony”,and “Stardust Happyhooves”. Then they join Pony Club, an organisation run by substantial ladies who stride about a lot and carry whips. Graduation from what is often a large vegetarian dog to a horse occurs in adolescence, or when offspring’s feet begin to drag along the ground whilst aboard. “Aboard” or “On board” refers to sitting on a horse or pony. It is WWW.PROCARTOONISTS.ORG
the opposite of “arse over tit” and has nothing to do with boats. It is recommended that those considering horse centered activities should visit an equestrian event. These are truly revealing. They need lots of space, like most of Cheshire. They are highly organized and boast stewards, judges, walkie – talkies [“Sssschsss. Click. Rider in pond, rider in pond. Horse loose, horse loose, Ssssschssss. Click”], 15,000 bacon sandwiches, umpteen portaloos, and massive carparks. And lots and lots of tabards. Three disciplines prevail. First is dressage wherein horse and rider are scrubbed until they glint, then have to walk, trot and canter [a sort of not – quite gallop] along predetermined lines under the cosmic gaze of the dressage judges [gasp] many of whom are specially varnished beforehand. Then comes showjumping. Ponies go over [or not] twelve or so little jumps and horses get bigger ones. Showjumping enjoys a commentator who names horse and rider… “And number 23 is Gwendoline Hacker – Tramline [pronounced “Traleen”] on Denzil’s Dream”… they then talk fairly forgivingly about said partnership’s progress… “Oh, and Denzil doesn’t want to know about the flower
baskets… aaah! over on the second time of asking…” Gwendoline and Denzil canter along the fence now, lining up for the water. Its often at this point that very impressive synchronized staccato farting is heard. Usually from the horse. Laughing at this is considered very bad form. Finally, those still up for it can tackle the cross – country element. [“Schssssschss Click. Rider still in pond. Horse attacking Bacon Sandwich Bar. Schssschsss. Click”] This is the Big One. At least two miles long, featuring hills, ponds [rider still in one] and imaginatively constructed jumps which are very solid, unlike the showjumping ones which collapse at even a moderate Denzilfart. There’s a cross – country commentator, too… “And its number 23, Gwendoline Hacker – Tramline and Denzil’s Dream. 128 faults at the showjumping, but fairly barreling up Bishop’s Lump now after making short work of the cross gates, a Volkswagen camper and two horseboxes…” Not for the fainthearted, equestrianism. Its not a dabbly thing. You’re either in it, or not. Just as you can’t be a bit pregnant or slightly dead. Now, about whithers and hands… THE FOGHORN 13
BUILDINGS IN THE FOG
Roger Penwill ponders. Hottest day of the year. Daisy is sunbathing in a large flower pot, half buried in John Innes No.2. Olivia is clucking fussily as she deposits a fresh scratch of stones and bark over the lawn. Thoughts are turning to what to write about for Fog, buildings-wise. At least mine are; can’t speak for the chickens. Hairy Expo pavilions perhaps? Maybe. Some pretty weird pavilions have graced (in the loosest sense) various Expos over the years, but who really knows or cares much about them and what is their point? Bit remote from the hum-drum, methinks. Top of the head, I can’t recall where the present one is. Somewhere abroad. They usually are. Roughly over there (points in a vague direction of nearly every-
14 THE FOGHORN
where). Maybe won’t write about that then. Perhaps the new buildings for the London Olympics? The wavy roof is now on the aquatic centre (a.k.a. the municipal baths) with its waviness intended to represent a ...erm... wave. There’s original thinking. The giant bath plug design was discarded at concept stage. As it stands it could be misread as a floppy plimsoll insole, which would suggest a different discipline, which wouldn’t normally be held in a few metres of water. Anyway the roof is being clad in shiny metallic cladding to represent aquatic shiny metal cladding. It’s gotta be iconic. China had a bird’s nest arena; we should have a bag of chips. Obvious. The main arena is half-temporary, half permanent. A committee definitely involved there then. Sadly the wavy thing appears to be the only interesting building for 2012 so nothing to write about really. Pick up the paper and shoo Olivia off the garden table. Cool shorts make lower limbs susceptible to Daisy pecking, she having finished covering the patio in excellent growing media. Turn to page three. This being the Times, nothing salacious of course. But there is something else there
to crank up the old blood pressure. Bloody Prince Charles! I may have mentioned him before in these ramblings. Gone international with his bonkers notions now, he has. It’s in the paper; must be true. Blood boil time. I usually avoid mentioning the fellow, and I wouldn’t want to go on about him and I may have touched on his obsession with neo-Classical architecture before. He believes it’s the perfect answer to domestic and municipal architecture and all design development should stop there. The flip side of this stance is that all modern architecture is rubbish. Sorry, my liege, but thee be spouting utter tosh. The impact of computers into building design has been enormous. New forms, building shapes and construction are possible that would have been inconceivable and unachieveable two decades ago. Modern architecture is capable of being exciting and inspirational. You wouldn’t get a wavy roof from a classical mind. If people like our esteemed Prince had had their way at the end of the Middle Ages there would have been no Renaissance and no neo-Classicism for him to spout on about. Like everything, things move on and develop. Read my lips: CLASSICAL ARCHITECTURE IS A THING OF THE PAST. It’s been. Gone. Had the funeral. His interference with the Chelsea barracks farrago is scandalous. He is stuck in a time warp which he now intends to spread abroad through the influence and patronage of his royal meddling buddies. A neo-Classical non-proliferation treaty is needed pronto. Where does the coalition stand on this? Reach for the tablets. Nice cool Pinot Grigio to wash them down. Feel better now. Still hot though. And still no idea what to write about. Where are the chickens? WWW.PROCARTOONISTS.ORG
THE LAST WORD
The Critic Call me Al
Foghorn’s resident critic Pete Dredge watches telly so you don’t have to. I’ve always been a fan of spectator sports. You know the type of thing. Bear-baiting, cock-fighting, hare-coursing... The Apprentice. Would my appetite be sated by this latest ‘novelty’ version ? Surely “Junior Apprentice” was going a bit too far even for this blood-letting BBC ratings winner. All well and good to see a bunch of ego-bloated, twenty-something tossers from the world of marketing and commerce self destruct before our very eyes, but putting a bunch of pre-pubescent school kids through the grinder would surely be contravening some stringent child protection legislation. Frighteningly not a bit of it. As with the more adult version, the boys team is made up of varying degrees of prattish oiks and the girls, a bunch of granite-hearted Lady Macbeths. But as is usual for this age group the sixteen year old girls look about twenty-five whilst the boys look about twelve, except for one strange,
WWW.PROCARTOONISTS.ORG
bearded country type who keeps sheep and looks about thirty-five. At the time of writing we are only halfway through the proceedings but already the ‘smug git you love to hate who makes it through to the final’ got the chop in episode one. They probably spotted his high irritation quotient and are saving him for a later version of the adult show once his voice has broken.
It’s hard to understand why the BBC had gone for this watered down ten candidate only version. Could it be that they are hoping to break in the new but decidedly less catchy catchphrase “Good morning, Lord Sugar!” before launching the next full blown, adult version. The tried and tested, but now redundant, “Good morning, S’ralan” certainly rolled off the tongue much more effortlessly and seemed slightly more chummier without loosing the required degree of deference. It wasn’t just the titular nomenclature that was new. The redoubtable Margaret has retired only to be replaced by a much too youthful looking Karren Brady. By the end of this series she may have developed the classic arch expressions of ‘shock’, ‘disgust’ and ‘contempt’ that were Margaret’s stock in trade. I sincerely hope so. Otherwise. Karen, with regret, you’re fired!
THE FOGHORN 15
FOGHORN (ONLINE) ISSN 1759-6440