Tops and Bottoms – 27th August 2025. – Never Iron Anything

It’s a surprise to me that I’m still alive.

A big slice of my life is spent driving. A dreadful motorway occupation where I combat boredom with the marvels of my smartphone pushing voices out through the car speakers. Long gone are the fourteen listens of the same battered case-less cassette tape. Now I have the library of the universe at my command. Recently I’ve switched the robot’s voice in my device to that of an Irish Lady – it feels more comforting somehow. One day I’ll be tied up in a sexual olympics challenge with her but for now I resort to shouting names and instructions at her.

One such name I enjoy asking for (always saying ‘Thanks’ in constant fear of the AI uprising) is that of Robyn Hitchcock. His sarcastically psychedelic musings over twangs and moogs a constant reminder of the brilliant ridiculousness of the UK. Cosmically I know him through his alternative comics version, Cliff ‘Q’ Cumber, the comics messiah of elegant meanderings. Taking a break from ‘Trains’, ‘Dead Wives’ and ‘Queen Elvis’ I spied a Mojo interview with Hitchcock. In part a personal investigation batted-off by this singer/songwriter and otherwise a review of a favourite album, this was a joy. Hitchcock takes a left turn at every opportunity, I smile when he compares a musical approach to the act of “Throwing giblets off a battlement”. A strange comment out of context but one that made absolute sense to me in the moment. If there was ever a musician with a comics-like visual imagination then Hitchcock is up there with Zappa.

This conversation inevitably turned to two rock obsessions – Old Age and Drugs. In an aging-centric part of the conversation about the use of “Acid” (the lysergic type and not the stuff I aim to put in the bathtub) Hitchcock made the following observation;

“I’m so old now that the only thing that would make me see a unicorn is an actual unicorn…”

I immediately got what he means. Age is a terrible and all powerful flowerpot! I feel it in my roots every hour.

As part of my ‘Active & Unplugged’ new life-plan/outlook I took a stroll into Russell Square and met my buddy Hal Weaver for brunch, some comics shopping and a good chat. As a man of extended range I am granted the opportunity to see new and old friends as often as I like. Hal is a man of infinite depths and we share certain humours and worldviews. Not only is he a comics-maker of work I admire he’s also recently discovered he has skills in acting. Such stories I could tell you but I’ll leave them for him and his upcoming releases. Big thanks for the T-shirt mon ami.

Speaking of flowerpots and Elvis this week over at the ACP has a wide-ranging part grumble/part celebration of the current status quo in comics small and Big Two. We are joined by the aforementioned Mr Cumber. He lends his sexual-tones to our journey and joins us for some views and recommendations. LOADS in this one so don’t miss out. Here’s that link.

Back to that task at hand.

Tops.

Possibly more Fantagraphics than what we imagine Image to be this was a Kirbmic energy battle from start to finish. With stripped back visual language Toth would be proud of and a blatantly ridiculous narrative. I loved every single page both splashy and otherwise.

Bottoms.

One of the efforts myself and some great artists tried to get over in our comic ‘Hidden Lives’ was that sex work is rarely flowers and millionaires. This comic I found on the Global Comix app makes it seem easier and more simplistic than it really is. It’s drawn in a juvenile sub-Manga style in a way that some readers may miss the actual point. From a craft POV it’s also pretty darn poor.