FOGHORN
The best of British cartooning talent
Issue 48
NEWS
FOGHORN The magazine of the Professional Cartoonists’ Organisation (FECO UK)
FOGHORN Issue 48
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 Layout/Design Cathy Simpson tel: +44 (0) 01527 570309 email: casartist@o2.co.uk
A recent survey* suggests that 99.999% of people prefer cartoons and silliness to George Osborne, TV chefs, and/or mumps. So here we go again with your slightly -before-Christmas Foghorn, striding through the bleak mid-winter against all the odds, with a sack crammed with the best cartoons around. We dare you to read it with a mouthful of mince pie and not spray crumbs everywhere. *Only 47 participants were hurt on purpose during this survey. Details after the court case.
Our Foghorn Design/ Layout guru Tiny Tim Harries, who has nailed Foghorn together these past 28 years is having a wellearned rest with those nice people at Sunnylands Secure Unit. Huge thanks Tim ! Pirouetting into the breach spins the fragrant Cathy Simpson, nowhere near as tall, but just as inky. Yo Cathy innit.
Bill Stott, Foghorn Editor
PCO Press Of�ce 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: The Surreal McCoy Back Cover: Rob Murray Foghorn (Print) ISSN 1758-6440 Glossop: 42 Pangolin: 38 (This is a bumper edition, after all) 2 THE FOGHORN
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BLOGHORN
Scenes from a mall: Big Draw 2010 by Royston Robertson
A burst of British Weather meant that October’s Big Draw events on the South Bank in London had to be swiftly moved from the open-air space of The Scoop, next to City Hall, to the nearby Hay’s Galleria. The Hay’s Galleria proved to be a great venue with lots of members of the public passing through and stopping to take part in the workshops and watch the Battle of the Cartoonists banners being created. For the Battle, the PCO’s victorious Team Bloghorn from 2009 was this year rebranded as Team Foghorn, in order to give a push to our sister print magazine.
The PCO team was, left to right, Cathy Simpson, Ian Ellery, Royston Robertson, Robert Duncan and Nathan Ariss. Cathy was standing in as captain for Pete Dredge, who was unable to attend on the day. All banners were on the festival theme of “Make your mark on the future”. PCO members were on hand to provide workshops for budding artists young and old. These were run by Wilbur Dawbarn, Tim Harries, Chichi Parish and The Surreal McCoy. Here is a brief account by one of our visitors, Maisie Tonkers (aged 8): I liked the look of this werkshop wher the nise man is trying to levertate that yung artist out of her seet I tryed it but it didernt werk. He had a lot of hair at the start but some has fallen out. Here I am telling this man how to draw cartoons and tell jokes he had very long dreadlocks before I started talking to him but theyve all fallen out I dont know why. i told him to keep his hair on. joke. i liked this werkshop to and it was fountians and peaple kept cuming along and steeling the tables and we endid up droring on the flor and next time im going to take my hat off so peaple can put money in it. peniless strugling artists indeed wot a lode of coblers the end by maisie xxx 3 THE FOGHORN
We competed against three other teams: Private Eye (Andrew Birch, Henry Davies, Simon Pearsall and Steve Way), The Guardian (Steve Bell and Martin Rowson alongside Ben Jennings and Anna Trench who made their debut in the newspaper over the summer) and, due to the fact that the Financial Times team was unable to make it, a hastily assembled “Coalition” team (formed the day before by Matt Buck, Alex Hughes and David Trumble). Each of the groups that Team Foghorn faced included at least one PCO member, such is the reach of the organisation: Bell, Birch, Buck, Hughes and Rowson are all in the PCO. This made losing – as the Private Eye team romped to victory in the traditional “cheer-o-meter” from the public – slightly easier to take! As did the usual camaraderie from cartoonists from all teams in the pub afterwards. Another marvellous Big Draw then, and Bloghorn would like to say many thanks, as ever, to Sue Grayson Ford and all at The Campaign for Drawing. WWW.PROCARTOONISTS.ORG
FEATURE STANLEY UNWIN (CHANNELLED BY IAN ELLERY)
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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)
“Oh yes - we always cruise at Christmas!”
“Honestly, Roger, you join the bomb squad and suddenly everything’s a suspicious package!”
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Dear Lady Violet, I suspect that my �fteen year old son is becoming increasingly suspicious regarding the identity of Father Christmas. Each year my husband, Kenneth, despite being a monopedal man, has donned the Santa suit and performed the full ‘ho-ho-ing’ routine while depositing presents in his stocking. Last year on Christmas morning I’m sure I detected a hint of recognition on the boy’s face. Do you think it’s time I told him the truth? It seems such a shame to spoil the magic though. Maureen Futtock (Mrs), Norcs. Lady V: Dear Mrs Futtock, I am stunned. The fact that you have sustained this ridiculous �ction for so long has probably caused your son irreparable harm. Experts (including myself)agree that prolonged indulgence of a boy’s childish fantasies inevitably leads to bed-wetting, erectile dysfunction and lisping. I suggest you take the poor boy aside at and tell him the brutal truth at once. Dear Lady Violet, I need your advice on a delicate matter. Every Christmas, my father insists on dressing up as Santa, despite the fact that I am nearly 16. I have known it was him for years as in all the pictures of Santa he is depicted with two legs whereas my father has been missing his left one since being trampled by a cow on a childhood trip to Morecambe in 1972. I don’t want to hurt my parents’ feelings by ruining the magic. What can I do? Anon, Norcs. Lady V: Dear Anon, Leave home at once and sue your parents for psychological abuse. Also buy a rubber mattress cover.
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THE POTTING SHED
The Potting Shed
Finally, Gordon ‘the Gadget’ Honkmonster has found this nifty piece of kit: the ‘Peeping Tom’ recordable video spy trowel.
with Cathy Simpson.
‘It looks like a trowel, digs like a trowel (well, you have to do the digging really, a bit like walking boots or climbing ropes) BUT is actually one of the world’s smallest and most discreet video cameras. It’s a great way to spy on your unsuspecting neighbours, or even record the wildlife in your garden, if you’re that way inclined. Alternatively, if you just like to lurk in the undergrowth - this fabulous device will provide the perfect excuse.’
Yes, we know Christmas was sprouting in shops at the end of August, but you’ve got to get round to your present buying some time! Here to help are Binky Homebrew, Euphorbia Marmelade and Gordon Honkmonster, who have been out of the Foghorn Potting Shed and scouring charity shops, car boot sales and even the odd retail outlet in search of the ideal present for that green-�ngered relative of yours. Loitering furtively under the mistletoe is our chairman, Alan Goatrouser. Euphorbia’s choice is a fabulous book, ‘Recipes from your Rockery’. ‘You’ve already had more than your fair share of tedious tomes dictating what to do with the produce from your vegetable patch, but this remarkable volume tells you how to make the most of an area of your garden not normally associated with delicious food. It features such classics as mud pies, rock cakes, pebble cakes and, for the modern gardener, chocolate concrete. Published by the British Dental Association,
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it also includes a money-off voucher for your �rst eight bouts of denture repair. Notice how I didn’t say “something to get your teeth into”. Arf arf!’ Binky’s found this fabulous ‘Love ‘em and leave ‘em’ sack, available from the RHS. ‘Looking remarkably like an oldfashioned mail bag, you simply put your fallen leaves in one of these, dump it in a corner of the garden (preferably someone else’s) and when you return three years later, you’ll have forgotten where you put it. If your relative’s looking green all over - and not just the �ngers - they also provide handy storage for the body while you wonder whether to call the police or not. Of course, this may mean you end up in an institution where you make mail bags yourself, but these days we’re all in favour of participating in the wondrous cycle of nature.’
So there really is no reason for buying bath salts, socks or hankies – or indeed anything else likely to end up in a car boot sale – for your unsuspecting relatives. Keep your gardening queeries coming, and we’ll laugh at them in the New Year!
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LETTERS TO THE ED
Letters to the Editor
Random acts of humour
The Editor, Foghorn Magazine, 7 Birch Grove, Lostock Green, Northwich. CW9 7SS E-mail: billstott@lineone.net
Dear Editor, I could not help but notice that in last year’s Christmas Foghorn, all the cartoons depended on negative seasonal observations for their so–called humour. I fervently hope that this will not be the case in 2010, at a time of great hardship for many people who need messages of hope and good cheer as they struggle to keep step as Big Dave’s Society marches towards compassion and fellow- feeling. Yours sincerely, Gwendoline Twite [Mrs] Hon Sec., Glossop Tricycle Club [There’ll be no feeling of fellows around here Gwen. Ed.] Gravistanya! And ho – ho – ho is Unkel Bippi callings! Have you the Christmess in your country as Dragvonia celibate the comings of St Niklaus to avenge all naughties in his blood red robes and oranges for creeps. All at Dragvonia House of Cartoon greet you! Unkel Bippi P.S. Once again UK cartoonisters fail mostly winning Golden Condom. Ho ho ho.
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FEATURE CHRIS MADDEN
The First Christmas Card
by Chris Madden
With every passing year the number of Christmas cards that I can place on the mantelpiece drops. Gone are the days when I had to string them from the picture rail just in order to �t them all in. Christmas card sales are in decline. This is because all of the older people who used to send them are dying off, and because young people can’t be bothered sending them. Why send a card when you can tweet? The concensus seems to be that Christmas cards are destined for the recycling bin of history, but personally I think that’s not the case. I predict a slow decline over the next few years followed by a rise in their use again once they become uncommon enough to be interesting to a new i-generation – when their actual physical presence and their lack of necessity give them a special value and when the very minor effort involved in actually sending the things starts to become appreciated again. But enough of this postulated potential renaissance of the Christmas card industry. Where did the habit of sending Christmas cards come from in the �rst place? Obviously the �rst Christmas cards weren’t sent out by Mary and Joseph as some sort of announcement of the birth of baby Jesus. Neither were they
sent to Mary and Joseph in the form of Congratulations on the New Baby! cards. This was partly because there were no cards to send back then due to the lack of printing presses, and partly because there was no reliable postal service in those days to send the things by even if they existed. We have to wait approximately1840 years before the post as we know it �nally arrives, in 1840. Before that date, sending a letter was a complex business, with different fees payable for mail sent to different destinations. I believe that this system is soon to be reintroduced by the current government, and is to be known as modernisation. 1840 saw the introduction of the Penny Post, with which sticking a little picture of Queen Victoria to the top corner of an envelope guaranteed delivery of the envelope and its contents to wherever it was sent within the country, and possibly the empire, which was everywhere else. In those very early days of postage the little pictures of the queen were black, but after a few years they were changed to red following the realisation that the black ones had a serious design �aw – it was impossible to see the postmark on them. When one thinks of the origin of the Penny Post, for that was what the postal service was called, the name of one person comes readily to mind – Rowland Hill. However, as with all things in the history of everything there were other people who had a hand in the project and who haven’t been awarded the recognition that is their due. One of these was Sir Henry Cole. Not that Sir Henry Cole was one not to be recognised in general mind you. He was a sir after all which might mean something. He was actually something of a whiz when it came to being recognised and for throwing his weight behind things. In the years following his work on the postal service he was responsible for overseeing several major exhibitions of arts and manufacturing, culminating in the not inconsiderable extravaganza that was the Great Exhibition of 1851. He later became the �rst director of the Victoria and Albert Museum, which, along with the rest of the major museums in London’s South Kensington, was built as a direct consequence of the preceding Great Exhibition.
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Cole was obviously a man who knew a lot of people, so every Christmas he had the rather tedious task of sending hand written greetings to them all. He was a busy man, so as a consequence he was rather time-poor to be occupied with all of this personalised greetings sending.
images of worthy acts of charity, as be�ts the sentiment of the season.
Being a man of proven resourcefulness, Cole hit on the idea of printing a card that carried an appropriate Christmas message that he could then post off to his various acquaintances using the Penny Post system that he had helped to introduce only a few years previously.
The temperance movement was in full swing at the time, and indeed it was at some time in the midVictorian era that the expression Happy Christmas started to be substituted for the traditional greeting of Merry Christmas due to the association of the word merry with mild inebriation.
He commissioned the Royal Academician John Callcott Horsley to execute the design of the card. (Horsley had other links to the postal service at the time, as he was also commissioned to produce illustrations for prepaid envelopes that could be used without the need for the newly introduced adhesive postage stamps – stamps for which Cole himself is sometimes credited with playing a part in the design). Horsley’s design for the Christmas card featured an af�uent family – probably based on that of Cole – enjoying a Christmas feast. This central design was �anked (as in a triptych) by
Despite the fact that Horsley had depicted a child indulging in the demon drink he was far from being an artist in the suspiciously self-servingly freethinking mould with which we commonly associate artists these days. He was in fact very much of a puritanical bent – so much so that he disapproved of life drawing classes – a stance that earned him the nick-name Clothes Horsley.
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The card actually came in for some criticism due to the fact that it included the depiction of a child drinking alcohol.
Something tells me that he’d turn in his grave if he could see some of the humour that’s deployed in today’s descendents of his original Christmas card.
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FOGHORN’S FUN FESTIVE TOP TIPS
Foghorn’s Fun Festive Top Tips
Random acts of humour
[Or, if you’ve been at it already, “We always leave the curtains open on Fughorn’s Fest Funtive Tit Tops] bitterYuletide evenings so any passing Housing Bene�t scroungers who’ve Writes Mrs Yvonne Ponnidge of evaded my personal security chaps can Goole: see what a ripping time we’re having.” “I think that as hostess over the Christmas season I need to be in a really good frame of mind, so nobody gets let in without giving me at least £50 in used notes as well as the obligatory crap presents.” Cool, Yvonne. Very sensible in a time of �nancial hardship.
Tough love Georgie, we love it.... And from Walter Dripping [84, and a right moaning old bastard] of Glossop: “Christmas? Christmas? Why, when I was a lad at Christmas we got nobbut orange peel to suck and even that were second hand. I were fourteen and workin’ 47 hours a day down’t’pit before I got a bit that ‘adn’t been sucked at least twice before. And I’ll tell thee another thing..........”
Re�ecting the necessary seasonal cutbacks comes this from an obviously fun-loving George Osborne [address withheld because it’s too posh to spell] [that’s enough. Ed.]
“That’s amazing! Only ten minutes ago, they were too shy to kiss under the mistletoe!”
Andy Davey 10 THE FOGHORN
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FEATURE NATHAN ARISS
My Life in Tights Nathan Ariss wrote to the actor Mason Ayres recently, asking about his stage work in panto – but mostly just to try out that amusing ‘Where is your career?’ gag. Unfortunately, this came out as ‘Where is your carer?’ on the page. Happily for us, they have now agreed to put this episode behind them. People often ask me “Mason, how on earth do you manage to �nd work?” I am, of course, immensely �attered – and yet humbled – by these entreaties, but all I can do is just smile and impart the sage advice handed down by generations of other greats: “Darling, one must simply ‘rôle’ with the times!” As an actor, one must always be prepared to play the parts that come one’s way, whether that be as Dane or Thane (work, however, offered as a ‘Background Artist’, or Extra – to give it its correct name – is a different beast altogether, and should be turned down post-haste). Thus, when my cue comes, call me, and I will answer “Aye”, or, as with my current production, “Arrrh!”Yes, it is a tremendous honour to be playing Captain Hook at this rather prestigious theatre in the West Country, and thus far it has taken all my professional nous and skill to prevent channelling Robert Newton into my performance! We are currently deep into injury time of the Dress Rehearsal, and I am writing this whilst the appositely-termed Lost Boys are being sought out in the bowels of the theatre, having missed their collective cue. No doubt they are all off smoking their crack-cocaine bongs or stealing hubcaps to use as improvised shields from the local environs. Well, that’s what happens when you employ actors from secondtier stage schools, I suppose. “The crocodile”, as I am wont to say at the moment, “waits for no man!”, let alone a whole tribe of miscreant youth. Let us hope they all grow up soon. WWW.PROCARTOONISTS.ORG
I am aware that for most of you Christmas is the one time of the year when you will grow weary of your usual televisual fodder of ‘soaps’ and ‘reality’ programmes and pull yourself out of your sloth and go to the theatre – usually to see a pantomime, featuring a soap ‘actress’ or a person of questionable reality. Well, whether you’re partial to a Dick or a Puss, I think we can all agree at least that the Xmas Panto is ‘where it is at’! [Oh no it isn’t Ed] Panto is, of course, well-known for using ‘stock’ characters, but this equally applies to the members of the cast: the young boy and girl, as the lovers, destined not to be on speaking terms for the last month of the show; the ingénue, found entertaining in her dressing room far more than she ever will do on stage; the actor playing the villain, an almost perfect mirror-image of the manic-depressive comic, resolutely chipper and upbeat at every turn; the sly, old roué, generally avoided for both his meandering conversations and hands; and lastly, the bright, young members of the Chorus, �lled with precocious little Tarquins and Jocastas, and all in wondrous awe of the magical land we call Theatre. Add to this a dashing, seasoned old ham – I jest! – and Ta-dah!, you may just have a winning formula for success there!
actors found slapping thighs and donning britches in theatre today. However, it was no great surprise to hear that Mims [Sir Ian McKellen - Ed] had followed my inspired lead – I was performing the rôle of one of the conjoined Ugly Sisters at the time (“Mason Ayres wasn’t half bad”, The Perth Times) – by appearing as Widow Twanky at the Vic, all screeching, high-pitched voice and outrageously-fashioned frocks. Personally, I would have thought he’d have got enough of that at home. But, ah, alas! My end draws near, though I just have time to thank that kind gentleman from PCO who purchased my book, “How Do You Remember All Those Lines?”, whatever your name was again.
At this point I imagine that it is no small surprise for you to read that a serious actor of my standing should write in praise of the humble panto, but I (I must confess) have form here! Modesty Well, hope you enjoy the show! forbids, so I must let others take the credit for the crop of classical Mason Ayres THE FOGHORN 11
SEASONAL CYNICISMS NEIL DISHINGTON
Stuff the Partridge
The Gallery
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FEATURE CURMUDGEON
said anything funny, “Well, to be precise, my better half looks after that, don’t you, darling he,he,he?” Better half ?
Random acts of humour
“In recent years Kenneth has taken to hibernating. We won’t see him now until the spring”.
“Apparently, it’s organic!”
“The villagers don’t seem terribly keen on our Neon and Rudolf roof decorations.”
Recently, Foghorn’s esteemed architectural consultant, Prof R Penwill, wrote pungently about the inconvenience and inadequacy of overhead lockers on aeroplanes. Curmudgeon respectfully suggests that those qualities are also signi�cantly present in certain passengers, as was demonstrated to me by a couple last January during a post-Christmas �ight from Sydney to Manchester, which, according to aviation experts is “a bloody long way”. Spotted in the check-in queue; matching sweaters gave them away. As did their matching document wallets retrieved at the desk from on-the-limit BIG matching carry-on bags. And their responses to questions about whether they’d packed their own bags. “Oh absolutely, yes”. Then, accompanied by one of those little laughs people do when they haven’t
Stowage angst broke out on the ‘plane with Mr and Mrs Organised unable to deal with the fact that their seats were not directly beneath a luggage locker. They summoned cabin staff. Unbelievable, I know, but they really did. Eventually, encouraged by a patient young woman who probably copes with stupid people every day, they �nally deposited their bags overhead but not before a large people jam had built up, two babies had begun to grizzle and a couple of older passengers quite possibly passed away. This sort of passenger is only acceptable when seatbelts are compulsory with seats in the upright position, so the climb out of Sydney was uneventful. But on release, somewhere over Dubbo, the Organiseds began testing the full �exibility of their seats. This caused the two large New Zealanders behind them to mutter very bad words. No effect. Seats continued to rock back and forth and the Kiwis lost the thread of their �lm repeatedly. This ignorant, pedantic indifference was summed up beautifully later,when, after much seat �ddling, luggage checking and loo visiting, dinner was served. On the menu was “Lamb Curry with rice”. The Organiseds had spent much time discussing the various alternatives, but when time came to place their orders, Mr Organised asked the appropriate member of the cabin staff, “Erm, what sort of lamb is it ?”and from the seat behind a tired Kiwi growled, “A bleedin’ dead one, mate”. Many hours later, whilst trudging through Customs with my nonmatching luggage, I saw Mr and Mrs Organised again. They were having their matching luggage randomly searched. He he he he.
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THE FOGHORN 13
FEATURE MIKE WILLIAMS
...wherein Mike Williams recounts his journey from balm-pot to big leather chair... “Your father would like a word with you in the front room.” My mother’s facial expression did not bode well. Holding my school report in his hand with his back towards me and staring unblinkingly into the evening light, father looked remote. “It seems that if there was an academic award for tomfoolery you should be head boy by now. Good God, what will become of you boy?” he grimaced. Familial warmth spread over me. Here I was, the sixteen-year-old young lion about to step forth onto the great pampas of life complete with a knowledge of every known fact in the universe and here before me a tired and slightly bewildered giant of yesteryear whose sands are seemingly running a little low. Inspired, I laid a caring arm around his shoulder; he looked startled. I then bunched a �st and gave him a mock punch in the solar plexus; he blinked. “Don’t worry, Dad, I’ve got it sussed.” I said in a conspiratorial man-of-the-world voice. With a Frank Sinatra wink I exited the room with the �ourish of a young man on a mission. The expression on my father’s face was hard to describe.
Later, when I had �nally surfaced from the bathroom, I spoke to my mother, who also seemed strangely remote and staring at some distant object. “Well, we had that chat and I reckon we understood each other in a man to mannish sort of way. Has he said anything?” A pause...”Yes, dear, he did. He said ‘I have to tell you that our son is complete “balm pot”’. He has been sitting at the bottom of the garden ever since.” “A balm pot! What the heck’s a balm pot?” “I don’t know dear but I don’t think it’s a compliment.” You, dear reader, will have realised that the expression “Balm Pot” encompasses all the fundamental attributes and requirements needed for a career as a cartoonist... and so it was. (My brother Pete was already selling... he’s the bright one) I began an apprenticeship as the lowest form of pondlife in a Liverpool Commercial Art Studio. After many years, I could just about illustrate most of the poor-quality items in the average household catalogue. I’ve always found artists “enmasse” demented yet creatively funny and in each studio I moved to, the same innovative anarchy seemed to prevail. I �nally ended up in the John Moores Studio, home of all of the heaviest ghastly catalogues. We all needed diversion and humour �tted the bill. “Albert” Rusling was a cartoon obsessed employee and soon to join us was Anthony Lee Ross, for me the �nest of all children’s book illustrators. So began our quests for success. Eventually, after great angst and mounds of rejection slips we all scrambled into Punch, Private Eye, Spectator etc. This was all I needed to attempt a solo �ight and it was followed quite quickly by Albert (I always led him astray if I could).
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These early years were tricky and often quite terrifying. However the sun began to shine when we both signed with Cartoon Agent Tony Cuthbert. The Ad Agencies paid well in those days and Tony was a formidable go-getter. Oh, that those days were still around.
The rest was unfamiliar, and then it dawned on me, it was basically a newspaper of�ce and the people all newspaper people ... cartoons, unless topical, would never really be an issue. I would spend a great deal of time and care selecting what I felt constituted the de�nitive selection from the two weeks’ contributions, take them to the editor who would inevitably start placing them into two separate piles. I would then ask him to explain.
The advertising gave us stability and the cartoons the icing. And with Punch we had the opportunity to mix with the humorous writing side of the Punch equation. Both these talents had the gift of being able to consume prodigious amounts of liquid refreshment and still somehow produce a “Those are funny, those aren’t” magazine on time - amazing! “I think you have just paid me a lot of money to be The tragedy for Punch was that it took too long the judge of that.” to lie down. I was offered the job as cartoon ed and turned it down; ten years earlier I would have Pause. “It’s my magazine!” snatched it. They increased the offer and again I politely declined. I caved on the �nal offer - the “...but it’s failing”..... horse’s head could be next. “Well, whose fault is that?” A spin in his chair and On my induction day I was greeted by the familiar back to his word processor. A nice man but as lost rather repulsive statue of Mr Punch, the delightful as all of us. gals of the library, the usual ‘loons’ in the art dept I see the newspaper as a fast food meal and the and the Editor’s Of�ce all in good order. magazine a rather genteel restaurant - don’t move the tables around every day, just keep tweaking up the quality. Our poor old magazine was neither Punch or Nuts and sadly was in free-fall. Near to the end, had we applied, there wasn’t one of us, including my friend George on the front desk (security) who wouldn’t be offered the job as editor. The one who should have been made editor was Amanda Jane Doran, she understood the magazine more than all of us and had it occurred to any of the management we would still have been pushing our ink in that direction. My father adored Punch all his life (and was talented enough to contribute). I would have dearly loved to have seen his face if he could have observed “balm pot” sitting in his big leather art editor’s chair in his big leather art editor’s of�ce overlooking the big leather Harrods in the big leather Knightsbridge, still being ineffectual but desperately looking the part. “ ‘Sussed’ ... what the heck is ‘sussed’?” “We just thought that whilst your majesty is looking at some new clothes, he might be interested in this example of an early sixteenth century air guitar that has just come into our possession.” WWW.PROCARTOONISTS.ORG
Mike Williams THE FOGHORN 15
CARTOONS WILBUR DAWBARN
“No, they’re not playing OUR song, they’re playing YOUR song.”
Cartoons by
The oft-forgotten Three Old Winos, who didn’t quite manage to follow the star.
‘What do you mean, you still won’t have sex with me?”
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“Doesn’t anyone else want to tell a ruddy ghost story for a change?”
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THE FOGHORN GUIDE TO
As previous Guides have sought to show, Life can be a Bugger. Hazy lines between what’s right and what’s not, everlasting roadworks outside Glossop, how in heaven’s name we got saddled with Big Dave as boss, and why God created Gyms; all these puzzles conspire to confuse and depress. We haven’t a clue about the first two, but in a largely unsuccessful but brave attempt to understand Gym karma, your reporter actually joined one. Whilst this sort of action is known in Law as Reckless Endangerment, your Foghorn volunteer was driven by a need to know, and a desire to be able to see his feet before Christmas arrived. In brief/briefs, here is/are his report: 8.00 am. L.A.Fitness car park. Thoughts; what does ‘L.A’ stand for? Los Angeles? Lard Arse? Large Abdomen? Note several primary coloured short wheelbase Vitaras and Rav 4s, sporting “Small Princess/Person/Dude On Board” stickers. Oh dear... 8.04 am. Approach Reception and “Hi, I’m Jakki, Nikki Debbi and Judi”. Do big smiling. Wonder how they can blink with hair pulled back so tight. Receive membership card and locker key and fob bearing ‘I [heart] fitness’. Intercom produces “Call me Jez” who is my fitness adviser, aged twelve. 8.15 am. Consultation with Jez re my fitness ‘goals’ ha ha ha and Jez ticks “Another fat old git” on his client profile clipboard. 8.30 am. With Jez, establish certain limitations caused by age, bad knees, back, elbows, ankles and shoulders. No mention of attitude. Sign form absolving gym of any and all responsibility regarding my staying alive. Or not. Jez suggests a start could well be made “on the old exercise bike”. At these prices I had expected a new one. 8.35 am. Follow Jez down corridor past room full of hefty females being bullied by stick insect in viridian lycra who is yelling, “Get those shoulders by those knees!” U.S. army
style, in time with the sort of loud ‘duff – duff – duff’ music normally associated with pip-squeak Vauxhall Corsas bearing huge tail pipes. 8.36 am. Arrive at bolted-down bike. Note label asking users to wipe saddle and handlebars clean of sweat, ‘in consideration of fellow customers’. Heart sinks ever lower as Jez explains how a bike works. Muse on stud in his left nostril. Does he get a build up of nasal clag behind it ? 8.40 am. Peruse fitness schedule prepared by Jez [by ticking five boxes]. Jez goes away. 8.41 am. Climb on bike. Commence pedalling. Level four. Not the easiest level. Feel slightly superior. Sneak glance at fellow pedaller next to me. Level one. The easiest. Feel even better. Notice absence of right leg. Feel awful. 8.42 am. Am aware that ‘duff – duff – duff’ music is not limited to the Lair of Insect Woman but piped through whole building. Deeply irritating. Gaze at huge TV screens on wall. Golf. Reality TV about Kyle getting Shannon up the duff [‘duff - duff - duff’]. Scan screens to left and right. More golf. Or jewellery auctions. Feel will to live receding. 8.46 am. Legs aching. Crutch smoking. Must have been at this for hours. Sneak glance at watch. Five minutes? Huh. Watch has stopped. 8.46.3 am. Notice second hand moving. 8.47 am. Enter blonde leotarded “Hi, I’m Kirsti” who climbs aboard the rowing machine in front of me and commences rowing. Seen her before somewhere. CSI Miami perhaps. 8.48 am. Mobile rings. Kirsti answers. Music still duff – duff – duffing. One legged neighbour now on level six. Kirsti IS from CSI Miami. She squeaks, “Oh hi! [No surprise there, then] I’m on the rowing machine!” and turns the sentence up at the end so it sounds like a question. 8.49 am. Am utterly overwhelmed by that ‘I really do not want to be here’ feeling. Dismount. Anorexic Kirsti still squeaking interrogatively. AND ROWING WITH ONE HAND! Pick up towel, wipe sweaty bike.
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THE FOGHORN 17
BUILDINGS IN THE FOG
[amateur night] Don’t panic, Penwill fans, Foghorn’s own architectural watchdog will be back soon. ‘Hurrah!’ I hear you shout, and the cheering will get louder when you’ve read what’s below. The trouble is, following somebody who knows what they’re talking about isn’t easy, as anybody who’s tried to respond to the question, “Is this your vehicle, Sir ?” will attest. Anyway, not being an architect, I tend to look at buildings in an endearingly simple way, as in:
‘Gosh, that’s very tall, isn’t it ?’ There, it can be found keeping the Or: ‘Why does tatty concrete al- rain out – and it really can rain in ways look tattier than tatty brick?’ Sydney – straight down and warm – and funnel webs in on some othNot getting too technical am I ? erwise pretty swanky pads. And it’s Good. the way Australia absorbs what it needs from European builders and Ten years ago, my daughter and architects which is fascinating. her husband went to see if they’d like to live in Australia. They did, Take Kirribilli House. It stands and are now Australian citizens on Sydney Harbour and is where and live in Barrenjoey Road. the Oz P.M. lives. Adolphus Feez built it in 1854 on land he bought Barrenjoey ! Great name. I often for £200. It’s a picturesque Gothic wonder what it means. A baby style house giving it the beans with female kangaroo destined not to re- barge boards, lots of fretwork, produce ? Who knows. The whole steeply pitched roofs, and is quite country is full of wonderful names. charmingly just there. A sitting An Australian poet friend of mine target for waterborne baddies, and was born in Mullumbimby. A the PM really does live in it. beacon you fly over from Darwin to Sydney is found at Dubbo. I’ve been past it quite a few times on one of the harbour’s chubby A type of plasticine. little ferries and never once spotted anybody who looked remoteBut one of the Australian archi- ly secret service-ish. Then, turn tectural features which had me your head just a bit and, WHAM ! double-taking on my first visit is There’s the Sydney Opera House. corrugated tin roofing. Here, agri- Utterly different. It dominates and cultural buildings get it. intrigues. Like the tail of a giant pangolin. I’d seen it on calendars and biscuit tins loads of times, but to be IN it is incomparable. It’s a brilliant experience. Great laminated spans of wood. Super Gents’ loos and an understandably upmarket souvenir shop. I saw an all-Australian tribute to Spike Milligan there a few years ago. I’d been a bit snobby at the prospect, thinking they couldn’t possibly capture the characters and atmosphere of the Goons. Wrong. Like the building they were performing in, they were brilliant. Mind you something else the Aussies imported did turn out to have a raspberry attached. The one-time conductor of the Sydney Symphony Orchestra, house band at the Opera House, turned out to be into all manner of naughtiness, and got himself arrested for smuggling pornography. There you go. What d’you expect mate ? He was a Pom.
Bill Stott 18 THE FOGHORN
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THE LAST WORD
The Critic
Ker-ding Dong Merrily on High... Foghorn’s resident TV critic Pete Dredge celebrates Noel. Christmas TV wouldn’t Christmas TV without ... NOEL Edmonds.
be
I don’t suppose the former radio DJ and kids’ TV show presenter got the gig solely because of his parent’s choice of festive forename.
Breakfast Show, House Party etc) this type of entertainment package soon fell out of favour with the onset of ‘ reality TV ‘ and moneyspinning interactive formats ( plus Ant and Dec, of course!). Years in the wilderness were surprisingly ended when Edmonds was offered an Endemol franchised late afternoon show for Channel 4 in 2005.
Noel’s Christmas Presents was a BBC Christmas Day show usually featuring trips to Lapland for sick children or the re-uniting of long lost family members. A guaranteed tear jerker, this made us feel sufficiently chastened and humble on this most self-indulgent of days. Fittingly, this glad tidings of a show is now only available for Sky One subscribers.
Deal or No Deal was a slow starter but has grown in to an addictive format where members of the public do nothing more than select a series of twenty-two numbered boxes representing monetary values from 1p to £250,000, to be eliminated one by one.
Nevertheless behind the branded ‘naffness’ of dodgy shirts, jumpers and 70’s coiffure style barnet lies a steely, determined media business brain. Despite cementing his TV career at the BBC with a series of primetime Saturday Night ratings winning shows ( Late, Late
On paper this would seem to be as dull a way to spend an afternoon’s viewing as you could possibly imagine but when you analyse how the producers remove the competitive nature from the show and crank up the group bonding and ‘human emotion’ factor associated
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with gambling, greed and failure it is a heady mix. Of course Edmonds knows that this is nothing more than a game of chance but does nothing to discourage the competitors belief that their list of special numbers, usually family birthdays or their IQ or some other bizarre formula, will see them through to the big prize. It’s a cruel deception that inevitably ends in disappointment but it’s milked for all it’s worth by the silkiest of presenters. With no immediate end in sight it must be Christmas every day for Uncle Noel.
THE FOGHORN 19
FOGHORN (PRINT) ISSN 1758-8758