Her mouth curled under like a metal snake.

Well now. A whole bunch of happening has gone on since my last Valentine's and it looked for a second like this one was going to suck ass.

Where to begin? Easy, at the start. Wednesday night I get a mysterious text telling me to go to the desk at the Dorchester up on Park Lane as there will be a message for me. I did not recognise the number, but when I received it my phone played the first four bars of 'Tijuana Brass' which I had not programmed on to my handset. Normally I can't be persuaded to leave the flat, but I could hear the scratching in the walls and the buzzing of the fridge and so I wandered out to find the note.

At the desk I gave my name; Monsterwork. "Ah yes," said the concierge because he has been trained to say "Ah yes" and "But of course" whenever appropriate. He handed me the note.

It had a delicate fig scent to it, and was the type of paper you paint watercolours on; thick and textured. The cursive text on it told me to go to to Victoria Station and ask at Lost Property about a pink Nokia 5610 with a Bad Batz Maru sticker stuck on it, that had been handed in around 1500hrs that same day. I thought whoever was running this bandit dance was way more trusting of The London Underground than I would ever be, but lo and behold and lo they had the phone.

My other instruction had been to speed dial #1 when I got the phone. I complied and got through to a recording made up from dialogue chopped out of films (I recognised Gabriel Byrne's voice, and Cesar Romero's) that said I should go home to my flat, get my passport and my toothbrush.

I did as it asked, in that I sat in my room with both items. I was concerned that my iPod had very little charge left on it. I suspected I'd be travelling, though the passport thing might have been misdirection, so I put a copy of Lawrence Block's Hit List and Ladies Man by Richard Price in my coat pockets and went and made some toast.

The phone rang just as soon as I'd put my Chestnut Terrine back in the fridge. It told me that 'my car' was waiting out front. I ate the toast on the fly and took a seat in the back of a warm and spacious Audi A6. The driver played the soundtrack to The Ipcress File, without the dialogue parts and there was a selection of Adam Hall's Quiller novels if I wanted something for the flight. I took 'The Scorpion Signal'.

At this point it occurred to me that I might have been kidnapped, and my passport used for any number of unsavoury purposes. I resolved myself to swallow my tongue if needed, but felt unnaturally confident that only good would come of this escapade.

The car pulled into Heathrow where the driver gave me a manilla envelope. Inside were all I needed to confirm a Virgin Atlantic flight to Miami. I busied myself with that for a bit before going on to the Clubhouse lounge there, where I had two Caipirinhas, a Hurricane and then, on the recommendation of Nicola from Girls Aloud, who'd I'd gotten talking to, I drank two Scorpions. I played her the Megadeth song of the same name on my iPod, which killed it. She gave me a kiss on the cheek when her flight to St. Lucia was called. I was a bit numb in the face when it happened sadly, but it meant I slept most of the flight. The three books went unread.

Touchdown in Miami. I was told on arrival that I had a connecting flight to The Bahamas, and I was hurried on to a private jet that I had all to myself (crew excluded). The stewardess had prepared pancakes and bacon for me, which I washed down with fresh orange juice. A package containing a charged iPod (set to a shuffle of unnamed tracks, though I recognised a few - 'Days Like These' by Matt Munro being the first song) a short-sleeved floral shirt, white vest, aviators and biege slacks in my measurements were presented to me and I was able to freshen up a little in the bathroom before putting on my new outfit.

We landed in Nassau and from there I was shown to an open top Chevrolet 1957 Bel air and driven along the coast.

Not ten minutes into my journey a motorcycle had pulled level with the car and the rider - obviously a girl, though her features were hidden under a crash helmet - was able to hand me a note written on the same thick paper as the one I collected from the Dorchester before putting some distance between us and vanishing round a corner. The note bore directions - 'first left, third exit' etc. I read them out to the driver and soon enough we were at a marina where I was able to complete the last instruction - 'Board the motorboat whose captain is wearing an I am your new landlord t-shirt.'

The boat took me a short while out to sea, piloted by a chap who looked like a Chinese Sean Penn. Things started to add up when I saw the Wallypower 118 anchored ahead and it's name 'The Disco Volante'.

I called "Permission to come aboard" and heard that it was granted. Sean Penn gave me a wink and I tipped him ten dollars before ascending onto the superyacht.

Now the rest is really my business. I'd love to really gloat about it but I won't. I'll tell you as much as it was Diora Baird who had put together this funny hide and seek.

She told me she had gotten her hands on a swimsuit much the same as Domino wears in Thunderball, and that alone was going to be my Valentine. But then she got an idea and she ran with it, as she is want to. We went back onto the mainland and messed around a bit with her roleplay. The Motorcycle messenger turned out to be Italian model Emanuela Folliero who did a turn as SPECTRE assassin Fiona Volpe.

It was silly, but a welcome distraction. Rather than end up with anyone getting shot at a Mardi Gras, or harpooned in the back, we all went back to the boat for dinner and dessert and it all went from there, really.

Best. Valentines. Ever.

Yeah, I know. Seems like a bit of cheat to spend that much time on the set up and then throw away the pay-off in a couple of sentences. It's just the day-time was quite goofy, bordering on cos-pay, with us all running round the island pretending to by mixed up in an international plot. Then the later stuff back on the boat - well writing it up would be more or less a Penthouse letters page, and I don't have the talent for that. I did get to swim naked, which has long been an itch of mine and something I'm sure you'd all love to picture.

I definitely did not spend it eating a tub of Ben and Jerry's Fossil Fuel in bed, watching Stallone fuck up a helicopter with a big stone and then hug the guy he's brained, frequently thinking what someone else was probably doing right that second, barking wildly everytime I did.

That's right. Hug it out.

As you all probably know, I'd have absolutely no problem admitting this, were it the case. After all, First Blood is better than girls. It's just it didn't happen. I spent Valentine's day in Nassau with Diora Baird.

And yes. I'm going to make this joke every single Valentine's Day that is shit until my hands get cut off.

"Is he live or dead. Has he thoughts within his head?"

A relaunch of sorts, or maybe just an overhaul. If it was comics, it'd be a new costume. Iron-Spidey. Armoured Daredevil. That blue lightning Superman.

When I first started this blog the title was meant to be the format. The short while I'd been in CBT, my therapist had pushed me to draw comic strips for some community mental health magazine baby. I didn't do a thing for it or him, but I did agree with his intention. The more insider views he can represent, the easier it is for other depressives to understand what's happening to them. So I was going to blog about the ups and downs in my world view: What pissed me off, however petty - Blackdog. What made me smile, insignificant or not - Ice-Cream. And in between there would be general patter as I tuned in to either a good or a bad. It'd serve me too as I figured out things about how I thought when I was in my low.

I never came up with a middle ground. Something that neither offends or excites me. Josh Hartnett?



I feel nothing for you Josh.


So here I am. Recent soap-operatics have got me looking down the muzzle of mi friendo: perro negro. I'm trying to put off looking at what it has to offer. I've already started the first bits. I run lengthy arguments in my head. I script them. Really stupid discussions, projected, imagined dialogues where I try and put across whatever I'm trying to bottle up. I sit on buses running these scenes. It's retarded. I might have punched my desk fan over today. Yay me.

But that's what it's like. I really can't say it any better than telling you it's like someone else gets to pilot you. You switch from one TV station in your head where you were watching Can't Hardly Wait every day, to one where you watch Jeremy Kyle and someone else has got their elbow in your ribs.

I'm lucky the last year has seen me take stock of my resources and know I can be happy and know what to do - that there's a bigger picture. But BD has years of canvassing experience. He wants me to vote him, because anything else is just a disservice to where I am and how I feel about things.

Even now. He gets me writing sentences that I delete because they are too self-indulgent, too self-pitying. Reading what I've already written, you can only imagine what qualifies for censorship.

So fuck him.

Because I fucking love The Marvel Universe.

I'm winging this entry, it's another unplanned, undrafted. Shame, because the MU deserves a dedicated post. A dedicated blog even. And I'm a bit reluctant to try my shtick with it because the frankly awesome Chris' Invincible Super-Blog is the be all and end all of comic writing on the web. Nothing else should ever be said.

I was thinking about my moral compass. And what the points on it are. I went with this.








Look, I'm trying to be spontaneous here. I drummed that up in about as much time as I took on the header (I'll be honest, I just wanted to draw an angry dog before bed. I wasn't planning on doing a logo or anything. So don't expect an apology.)

As North you get Spider-Man. Compassion and optimism
As East you have The Hulk. Representing impulse and unchecked emotion.
In the South sits The Punisher. Rocking force of intolerance and pessimism.
And West side belongs to Iron Man, pragmatist, strategist, thinker.

If you've had to puke, I'll give you a second to pour some Ribena and just take stock of yourself. It's alright man. You don't think like this and that's good. Send me your dry cleaning bill.

It might seem a little unbalanced, and yeah, I think the right place to be is somewhere North West. But Spider-Man has his flaws. He gets a lot wrong. Gwen Stacey's long drop and sudden stop, being just one. Whereas The Punisher doesn't get much wrong, not by his way of thinking. Hulk is angry, sure. But he's got strength and will and it's cathartic being him. He lets loose. Iron Man makes decision nobody likes him for, and carries more responsibilities than you and I would ever wish for.

I don't really have a defined introduction to Marvel. I was aware of characters. Spider-Man and Friends might have been the beginning. Or a school chum's Secret Wars figures. I loved my Marvel Heroes and Villains Top Trumps. Two decks loaded with awesome looking designs. Dreadknight. Nick Fury looking cocksure as hell, all stubble and cigar and strapping heat. Blastaar. Nova. The Silver Surfer. The Vulture. Absorbing Man. Ant Man. Wolverine (even without a context, he was the coolest card in the deck). Silver Samurai. Who were these outlandish people? What did they do? My brother and I would have playfights, during which we'd produce a card and morph into whatever guy we held. Some skills were obvious - Hawkeye did a lot of shooting arrows. Whereas unknowns like Mentallo, or The Owl we just made up what they did. Go look at The Wizard and tell me if you can guess what his power is? Magic?

No. He designed discs that hover in the air. Look out Invisible Girl. The man in the big hat is floating at you.

Later on, I'd get my pink digits on annuals. Or sticker books. Things started to make more sense. Galactus isn't just a big man. He's a big man in space. Eventually I would skip lunches at school and spend that coinage on single issues. Snapshots of characters. One chapter in their heroic ordeal. Daredevil fighting a weird voodoo and an actual demon version of himself. Ghost Rider wrecking a bunch of ninjas with a chain that turns into flying razors (I now know the Ninjas were The Hand. Zombie Ninjas. Who you can massacre all you want in a comic about a guy with a burning skull for a head, because they're already dead and turn to smoke when you, uh, smoke them.) The Punisher in an ice-cream van stalking a mobster called Joe Fixit who looks like the Hulk in a trilby. Weird two-in-ones where Iron Fist punched things and you turned it over to read about Wolverine trying not to get kissed by some broad called Typhoid Mary. (These were the scratchy years at Marvel. Sam Keith. Jae Lee. Mark Texiera.)

I filled in the rest of the story where I wanted to, but for the most part enjoyed the issues like songs. Panels became riffs. This is the bit...we're coming up to the bit...yesss, he pulls off the guy's frozen head and shatters it.

DC crept in. But with them I never felt the joy of a shared universe. And for obvious reasons. Marvel was put together more or less at the same time. You start writing a comic about Thor? You have him meet the Fantastic Four that week. It was a long time before I understood that Superman knew Batman knew The Flash. I read some DC news-stand stuff. Magazine size strips where a lot of the stories were stand alone. Batman out of his mind on cocaine, fighting The Ventriloquist. And. Right. This. Second. Do. I Get. The Scarface. Gag. There.

I read DC Action, another magazine-style comic, which blew my mind as it ran a Teen Titans story featuring the awesome Deathstroke The Terminator alongside a Keith Giffen redux of The Creeper, which looked like no other comic art I'd seen and also was my first exposure to a comics anti-hero. Finally we had stories from Grant Morrisson's run on Animal Man, which may have been where all my emotional difficulties stem from. Jokes about impotence. Murder. Animal Man having his arm torn off in a fight and a giant pile of screaming, half-melted monkeys.

Once I had the money and the know-how I started to make repeat visits to Time Trek, Bromley's (still standing) premier comics shop. I befriended the staff, and set up reservations.

I was 13, 14. So I only appreciated artwork and what I thought were edgy characters. If you are the unitiated reader and you've made it this far, I should probably give you some background into Image Studios, which took off about the same time i started taking comics seriously. A statement that doesn't make sense if you knew Image. A bunch of hot-shot artists and Rob Liefeld set up their own print of comics where they owned the rights to their own characters. Who were all Wolverine.

I haven't stayed with comics this whole time. I left everything well alone after another hokey X-Men crossover back in the midnineties and I just got on with being a douchebag. I kept abreast of this and that, but it wasn't until I was at University and I started reading Hellboy TPBs that I began building a collection again.

Thing is, unlike when I was little, I had become a little more discerning. I couldn't just jump on board anything. I wanted something that when read on the stands looked like in-the-long-run good (and not one issue with pencils by Steve McNiven and them twelve more by Tony Daniels), and then I needed a jumping-on point. Which given Marvel's convoluted and excessive continuity isn't easy. I'd say only in the last year and a half have I found places I can climb aboard Captain America, The Hulk, Spider-Man (that was last month to be precise with Brand New Day) Thor (got relaunched) and Iron Man. Fantastic Four gets a new, killer creative team in Mark Millar and Bryan Hitch (The Ultimates) this month and so they'll join the 30 odd titles I pick up a month from Forbidden Planet.

Anyway. I really only wanted to talk about my affinity for Marvel characters. Right now I like Iron Man. I do. He's made some tough choices in the last 12 that's made him unpopular both inside and outside of his fictional thread. He's a futurist, you see. Tony Stark is a billionaire industrialist. He has the resources and the genius to make the world a better place for most people. But he knows that won't be all people and like any good captain he has to think and act ruthlessly for a greater good. In his case he's a captain of industry, and recently the director of a S.H.I.E.L.D.(Marvel's U.N.C.L.E. but with flying cars and flying aircraft carriers and spandex instead of Robert Vaughn talking into a pen.) People are looking at him now the wrong way, because they can't see the end game he does. And should he fail, his noble intentions will just mean more steps on that smokey path to the pit. It's the bigger picture for Iron Man. I asked my friend David how he does it, because David will tolerate the idea of me looking at picture books about men in robot suits as a source of moral inspiration.






David told me it's because he gets to fly and blow shit up. which is going to be quite cathartic.




Right. Welcome to my blog. Every post is like this one. I talk too candidly about my emotional state for a bit and then tangent into something you don't want to read about. Either because you don't care for it, or you know it all already.

I'm off to sleep, seeing as I can't fly or blow shit up.

Though Iron Man was an alcoholic for a bit. So there's always that.