I spent this afternoon writing an information page about self-harm while pulling my hair out. Oh, the irony. I think I did an OK job, but sometimes I think that I just have too much history now to communicate successfully. Maybe there ought to be a cut-off point after which you're not allowed to give anyone any advice any more. 33, say.
In lieu of advice, here is the report of an experience; UKCAC Diary, a strip I wrote after the last UKCAC.
UKCAC isn't a very pleasant name, is it? It stands for UK Comics Art Convention. When I was a student it was the British comics convention, held annually in London (there was a sister con called GlasCAC) and teeming with all the comics fervour of the late 80s. By the time this strip came to be drawn it wasn't in London any more, and the enthusiasm of the 80s was long gone.
So turn back the clock to 1998, and head up to Manchester with me for two days of drunken blundering around the convention hotel that taste forgot, bothering famous people like Joe Sacco and Eddie Campbell, eating tiramisu and drawing on tablecloths, at the last UKCAC ever. This is Page 1 of six.
I'll put the next up next moment I get. Brought to you by the now defunct Oxford city centre Kall-kwick copy shop and the indispensible Pritt.