foghorn - no. 45

Issue 45The best of British cartooning talentFOGHORN

NEWS

The magazine of the Professional Cartoonists’ Organisation (FECO UK)

FOGHORNFOGHORN Issue 45

Published in Great Britain by theProfessional Cartoonists’Organisation (FECO UK)

PCO PatronsLibby Purves Andrew MarrBill Tidy Martin Wainwright

Foghorn EditorBill Stott

tel: +44 (0) 160 646002email: [email protected]

Foghorn Sub-EditorRoger Penwill

tel: +44 (0) 1584 711854email: [email protected]

Foghorn Layout/DesignTim Harries

tel: + 44 (0) 1633 780293email: [email protected]

PCO Press Officeemail: [email protected]

Web infoPCO (FECO UK) website:

http://www.procartoonists.org

BLOGHORNhttp://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.

CopyrightAll 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 BirchBack Cover: Liam Saunders

Foghorn (Online) ISSN 1759-6440

Glossop Watch: 3

As the ash cloud of coalition settles over the political landscape and La-bour spinners wonder if Ed Balls needs a name change before becom-ing 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, gar-nering pro – cartooning pieces in the Grauniad and Times from two of our

very active Patrons, Martin Wainwright, and the wholly in-imitable Libby Purves. And Blog-horn continues to keep its intelligent, gimlet little eye on media movers and shakers. Meanwhile, here’s your latest Fog-horn which seeks to ignore all that by suggesting that its good to be ever so slightly deranged.

Bill Stott, Foghorn Ed

“To think it was me who suggested you took up an interest in basket weaving...”

An exhibition en-titled Rude Bri-tannia recently opened in Tate Britain, and runs there until Sep-tember 5. The exhibition

explores British comic art from the 1600s to the pres-ent day. Bringing together a wide array of paint-ings, sculptures, film and photog-

raphy, as well as graphic art and comic books, the exhibition cel-ebrates a rich his-tory of cartooning and visual jokes. www.tate.org.uk

THE FOGHORN2“A stick of rock, cock?” by Donald McGill

THE FOGHORN 3WWW.PROCARTOONISTS.ORG

FEATURE CLIVE COLLINS

Money In The Wrong Hands

Clive Collins

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 agen-cy. 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 virtu-ally 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 fol-lowing day, they were enthusiastic about the roughs, but in that strange way that a wife is enthu-siastic when you’ve gone ahead and painted the woodwork without hav-ing discussed things with her first - like the colour.

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 enthusi-asm 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 draw-ing 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 won-der why I’d been issued with no fur-ther 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 Stan-dard.” 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 – ex-tremely 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 FOGHORN4 WWW.PROCARTOONISTS.ORG

BLOGHORN

Will draw for drinksBloghorn’s Royston Robertson stays up way past his bedtime.Revellers at the Groucho Club, London’s premier trendy media hangout, found some-thing to distract them from the anti-climax of the General Election on May 6th: live car-tooning. Members of the PCO, the organisation which runs the Bloghorn (and prints Foghorn. Ed), were on hand to draw cartoons in an infor-mal capacity – is there any other way in the Groucho Club? – on the subject of politics and the election, as well as drawing live cari-catures. 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 pho-tographic 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 endan-gered 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 jing-

ly christmas music.” Running from May to July 2010, the parade, which is run by the char-ity 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 el-ephants 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 proj-ect called Cow Parade, and painting a model gui-tar for Lon-don Guitar Town. Her design was picked by Sir Paul McCart-ney. 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


To the glorious surroundings of Pembroke College, Cambridge, for a learned and earnest discus-sion of humour in art. The conference featured two key-note addresses: one by Robin Si-mon, editor of the British Art Jour-nal and author of Hogarth, France and British Art, and a second by Quentin Blake on his approach to humour and how it informs his work, especially his recent 70ft mural for Addenbrooke’s Hospital depicting Cambridge University’s 800-year history. Unfortunately, due to deadlines of the crust-earning variety, your correspondent missed both talks, but there was plenty else to tickle the synapses. It was an interesting departure for a humble practitio-ner to go back and be enveloped by the warm, crusty embrace of academe; a delightful chance to enjoy in-depth reflection on our art-form. It was a true cartoon nerd’s paradise (in the nicest pos-sible way). Topics ranged from Shang-hai art-deco cartoons to a study of the African wom-an as muse for Georgian car-

toonists like Gillray and Newton. An unexpected bonus was a short talk by the remarkable polymath Loyd Grossman (yes, that one) on Babar the Elephant, the much-loved French cartoon strip, deliv-ered with a liberal sprinkling of wit – a dangerous weapon to use in the groves of academe. I was keen to explore the rea-sons for the apparent distaste for the British to embrace the study or appreciation of cartoons as an art-form, wondering whether it was connected to a wider disdain for the art-form here by serious art mavens, while continental Europe holds it high. Over coffee, I unfairly ear-holed poor Professor Jean Michel Mass-ing of the History of Art depar-ment to find out. His off-the-cuff explanation was that there was no inherent disdain, it was simply down to lack of money to initiate research projects. Your correspondent respects the

learned pro-fessor’s pitch for funding, but reserves j u d g m e n t , while retir-ing to scratch his beard and

think.

FEATURE LADY VIOLET

Random acts of humour

Dear Lady Violet,My husband and I are rather worried about this new colation thing and all those hor-rid liberals worming their way into gov-ernment. 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 pur-chasing 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 May-oress 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 behav-iour 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.

Quentin Blake mural, King’s College,Cambridge (Pic: King’s College)

Foghorn’s very own ‘Agony Aunt’ Lady Violet Spume, answers your nasty little per-sonal problems. (Dic-tation by Lady Violet’s private secretary Clive Goddard)

A serious discussion of humourAndy Davey goes back to College.

“I think Arthur’s really captured the moment...”

FEATURE RUPERT BESLEY

This is your caption speakingby 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 oth-ers, in large letters to decorate the classroom wall. The resulting post-ers were a sight more entertaining than the Repeal of the Corn Laws or Growth of the British Constitu-tion 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, ex-cuses 1, 5 & 7. And, in that same moment, you realised just how fee-ble, thin and unoriginal these were. All had been tried a million times before. One that stuck in my mind (from the list of Unplanned Class-room 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, mis-read, misrepresented. Hands up

anyone that has ever had a car-toon 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 em-ployed an illiterate to copy my cap-tions and add in all his own spell-ing 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 protec-tion from the predatory attention of a junior editor. My own handwrit-ing is totally illegible, especially to me, but I’ve worked out a form of sub-Thelwellian American Type-writer-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-let-tering 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 em-phasis. I’ve no idea how much this is his own in-vention 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 politi-cian trained in meaningless buzz-word 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 prolifer-ating on t-shirts. But modern suc-cessors 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 deco-rate 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 Fol-lows over 7,000 strips in 20-odd years, May un Mar Lady. Says it all really.

THE FOGHORN6


FEATURE NEIL DISHINGTON

Letters to theEditor

Snail Mail: The Editor, Foghorn Magazine, 7 Birch Grove, Lostock Green,

Northwich. CW9 7SS E-mail:

[email protected]

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 trou-ble 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 for-get 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?

None shall pass!Neil Dishington is feeling very insecure.

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 dem-ocratic 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

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 wom-an in it and the man was saying something to the woman, and it was really funny, but I can’t re-member what it was. It was in a magazine. Or possibly a newspa-per. Best wishes

Emily Broadbean [Mrs]

Fuzzy thinking

Dear Editor, Does anyone have a razor I can borrow?Sincerely yours

Mrs E.K.I.Thump


“I’m just going outside and may be some time.”

“You were the last person I expected to fall down on the job, Trubshaw.”


THE POTTING SHED

The Potting Shedwith 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 Whistlepostleth-waite (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 sprout-ing leaves of the most extraordi-nary colours. Quite put me off me cocoa. What’s so dashed mysteri-ous is that they spell out messages – quite obscene ones at that. Prob-lem seems to get worse when that gang of ‘doodies’, or is it ‘hood-ies’, 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 il-legal 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 Regula-

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 obsceni-ties yourself. You’ll never know the difference!’

Yes, it’s very important that garden-ing 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-Wynde-bagge 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?’

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

your line! It might soften the blow a bit if you just plant your hang-ing 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 Wa-ter’. 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 com-ing. 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 dou-ble-barrelled names.


FEATURE TIM HARRIES


“Every time I think I’ve made some progress I end up back in this class.”

“Don’t blame me because your computer doesn’t work. All I did was tidy up that

whole mess of wires at the back.”

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: Abil-ity to play tedious 10 minute solos while swigging from a bottle of Jack Daniels) and the Drummer (CV: Hits things very hard and occasion-ally 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 spin-ning 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 be-hind your bank of organs, synthesis-ers 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 con-fused. 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 syn-thesis?”) Of course, it’s not like keyboard play-ers 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 gui-tarist 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 instru-ment 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 un-bridled noodling from Edgar and his portable keyboard. He’d probably apologise for the clothes he’s wear-ing, but for putting the keyboard front and centre? Nope! In the words of Whispering Bob... “Amazing”

Tickling the IvoriesI’ll be at the back if anyone wants me, says Tim Harries.


Mansard Trevelyan swallowed hard and felt for his Knackerthwaite. Or would have if he could have. The barrel of steel pressing into his gul-let allowed only half a swallow and ruled out downward fumbling. In-stead, 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. Be-hind lay the slurry pits, watched over by Demenzia’s gruesome trio up from The Smoke. Close by, loose paper flapped on the creaky board advertis-ing Spitcock’s Laxatives. Superflu-ous, in the circs. And closer to, beyond the barrel, crouched a masked figure in combat

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 coun-ties. “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 be-tween 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,

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 prob-ing fourth finger found the raised but-ton of the sock suspender, slid down and across and then pressed hard to activate. He heard the chemicals siz-zle and knew he had less than one sec-ond to wait...To be continued!...

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...

... but only with your help! Here’s your chance to contribute to Fog-horn! If you fancy your hand at writing a future chapter of The Trevelyan Files, let us know!

email us at [email protected]

Reports are reaching us of another raid on Glos-sop Pangolin Sanctu-ary. This one appears to be the work of mis-guided animal rights activists. The Glossop pangolins have been targeted in the past by several groups includ-ing one composed en-tirely of covert indus-trial chemists seeking pangolin earwax, an important constitu-

The Gallery

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.

B r e a k i n g news...


covered in silly wiggly lines? Or, in my case, holes.

Which brings me rather neatly to TV’s Masterchef. Without wish-ing 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 expen-sive china like miniature in-stallations. Food Faberge. What happens then? The bald geezer and his corrod-ing 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 fla-vour of the wildebeest, or how the tequila really brings out the hones-ty of the spotted dick, but then they attack these jewel – like structures with their eating irons and actually consume them! Not so very dif-ferent from cutting up Constable’s Haywain into 500 squiggly little pieces. ‘Course, the big difference is that reconstruction will be no-where near as accurate. Apart from the odd olive pip, perhaps.

CURMUDGEON

Piece by piece

I suppose its all to do with pa-tience, 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 knob-bly 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 jig-saw 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 togeth-er and even then to end up with an inferior version of the original, all


CARTOONS NOEL FORD

“Okay guys - you’re on...”

“Have you tried switching it off and back on again?”

Cartoons by “We’d like you to develop his natural potential asa soloist - we’d hate to see him end up teaching!”

“Look, silly, here’s where you’re going wrong!”


THE FOGHORN GUIDE TO

As ever, your PCO Guide tackles the unfathomable. Equestrian-ism is a posh word for the sim-pler and more down – home term, “horseriding” which suggests cer-tain essentials, e.g., a horse, a field, a stable, a rider, and the ability of the latter to remove vast quanti-ties 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 wheel-barrow or skip lorry helps in this regard. But that dear reader, is the simple-ton’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 charac-teristics. 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 organi-sation 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” re-fers to sitting on a horse or pony. It is

the opposite of “arse over tit” and has nothing to do with boats. It is recommended that those consid-ering 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 car-parks. 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 partner-ship’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 syn-chronized 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 Sand-wich 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 showjump-ing, 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, equestrian-ism. Its not a dabbly thing. You’re ei-ther in it, or not. Just as you can’t be a bit pregnant or slightly dead.

Now, about whithers and hands…


BUILDINGS IN THE FOG

Roger Penwill ponders.

Hottest day of the year. Daisy is sun-bathing 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? May-be. 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 usu-ally are. Roughly over there (points in a vague direction of nearly every-

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 wavi-ness 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 dis-cipline, which wouldn’t normally be held in a few metres of water. Anyway the roof is being clad in shiny metal-lic 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 interest-ing 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 peck-ing, 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 ram-blings. 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 fel-low, 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 mod-ern architecture is rubbish. Sorry, my liege, but thee be spouting utter tosh. The impact of computers into build-ing design has been enormous. New forms, building shapes and construc-tion are possible that would have been inconceivable and unachieveable two decades ago. Modern architecture is capable of being exciting and inspira-tional. 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-Classi-cism for him to spout on about. Like everything, things move on and de-

velop. Read my lips: CLASSICAL ARCHI-TECTURE 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 influ-ence and patronage of his royal meddling buddies. A neo-Classical non-pro-liferation treaty is needed pronto. Where does the coalition stand on this? Reach for the tablets. Nice cool Pinot Gri-gio to wash them down. Feel better now. Still hot though. And still no idea what to write about. Where are the chickens?


THE LAST WORD

The CriticCall me AlFoghorn’s resident critic Pete Dredge watches telly so you don’t have to.I’ve always been a fan of specta-tor 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 market-ing 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 de-grees of prattish oiks and the girls, a bunch of granite-hearted Lady Mac-beths. 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,

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 proba-bly 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 test-ed, but now redundant, “Good morning, S’ralan” certainly rolled off the tongue much more effort-lessly and seemed slightly more chummier without loosing the re-quired degree of deference. It wasn’t just the titular nomen-clature that was new. The redoubt-

able Margaret has retired only to be replaced by a much too youthful look-ing 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 re-gret, you’re fired!

FOGHORN (ONLINE) ISSN 1759-6440

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