sundays are kind of terrible (Douglas Adams got that right)
A greasy spoon, and a monument to vimto; Manchester on a sunny sunday. I'm pitifully hungover, in case that isn't immediately obvious, throughout the next page of the UKCAC diary. In panel 4 I meet, for the first time, my comics hero Eddie Campbell. If this were a story, we'd hit it off right away. But it's not; the two? three? times I've met him our conversation has been stilted and awkward. He's good in a talk, though; see him, if you get the chance. The last time I spoke to him, he was disappearing off into "working on Batman". I'm glad for his success, but also rather hoping he'll come out of that again some time, and do some of his own comics again. Don't bother trying to recognise the people in the small press panel; even I can't remember who they are. Big black birds, and an emerging nine panel grid. Variable hair ... I duck out of the small press panel early, going to run cold water over my head for about the ninth time that day. How can I stand another three hours of this? Answers on the next (last) page.