Mindless Ones

When I was about 11 years old my Father and Stepmother moved into an enormous Edwardian house in Surrey, owned by an eminent Buddhist scientist and a Thai Princess. The House had extensive grounds, being situated in a large wood complete with an old cottage that was now a private residence but would have been the servants lodgings a hundred odd years ago. My Father’s family rented one half – again, probably the servant’s half – of the main house, while the owners, complete with jet-setting, Lamborghini designing children, took the really posh bit. There always was, and is, something strange about moving through the main downstairs corridor that connects both family’s ‘homes’ – from the shabby, sepia tinted wallpaper that represented the world I lived in when I stayed there, and out into the clear, white, airy space inhabited by the other residents. There was a feeling of intruding, of being out of one’s depth. But as I got older and eventually got to know the entire place, I started to feel differently. In the end, the overriding feeling was simply that the way the other half tried to present itself was inherently dishonest. Not intentionally so, but nevertheless there was something anachronistic about the kind of aristocratic world that they, and the house, represented. Like a good deal of Edwardian stuff, it felt as though the house and its inhabitants somehow embodied the last, glorious, sad throws of a world that had only recently been devoured by social mobility, daytime telly and cultural relativism. I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with that, but there was something deeply melancholy about it – as though by peeling back the thick, red, draped curtains that weighed heavily on the bedroom windows, you could reach out, through, and touch that other world of bright sunny days, tennis on the lawn, and all that E M Forster crap. The place, even in the high rent bit, always felt faded, and like all proper mansions was cobwebby, the black wrought iron window-catches didn’t work properly, the grass in the orchard was often unkempt, and it was COLD. Wherever you went in the house, my abiding memory was that it was often bloody freezing. And it hasn’t changed much in that regard.

You have to kick the backdoor to open it – it’s bloody stiff!

The great interblog circle jerk continues with this, the first instalment of my interview with the guys at Funnybook Babylon, where-in we discuss TOUGH LOVE FOR COMICS, contemplate how best to help the little bros, and take Tucker Stone’s name in vain*.

*Tucker responds in the comments

Click for interview action

Coming December 9th, the new book written by Tim Leopard and illustrated by Fraser Geesin (our very own Gary Lactus).

More dream dating after the jump

“Green Goblin in the trees”

We were on a steam train, dashing past some woodlands when my son said those words. The sentence struck me as an example of the kind of winsome utterance one might expect from a small child obsessed by Spiderman. But at bedtime, as we were making our way through Each Peach Pear Plum, and I found myself attempting to explain to an anxious boy that the Wicked Witch hidden beneath the bramble bush should be thought of as a nice witch for the duration of the story, I started to reconsider. Later, as I went to turn off the light, T gestured fearfully towards the shadowy corner of the room and whispered “Green Goblin in the brambles!”. A small shiver ran down my spine and I realised that Mysterio would have to wait, I wanted to write about Norman Osborn’s monster.

More rambling thoughts after the jump

Click for more Termini

Oh no, not this tired old turn again – it’s bollocks. No it’s not, but it has got bollocks in it. Oh no, not again, leave the poor dead dog alone would you? Actually it’s not a dead dog, but it has got a … etc.

Check the fuck out of these latest man-bloomers, or ‘moomers’, if you like. They’re the latest hot-off-the-rack examples of the comics world’s ever increasing penetration into the intersecting tripartite spheres of movies, fashion, and sense-shatteringly great undies.

Rifle through my drawers

Look at that! That’s The Beast Must Die‘s Haunted Mansion. A bunch of us Mindless Ones have just recorded a podcast (NSFW) there where we all talked about scary comics.

Download at your peril![audio:http://mindlessones.files.wordpress.com/2008/10/mopodcast007.mp3]

We also managed what will be our regular podcast features, Voyage Into The Negative Zone and Touchdown On Paradise Island where we slag things off and praise others respectively.

mopodcast008[audio:http://mindlessones.files.wordpress.com/2008/10/mopodcast008.mp3]

More after the jump…

Click for more Termini