I hear the blues a-callin'...

I'm suffering from separation anxiety.

For Christmas, I bought my wife the complete Frasier on DVD. All eleven seasons. We've just finished watching the lot.

Amazingly, every disc was correct. No duplicates, none missing. 44 perfectly intact, correct and present shiny discs. At this point, I do have to say "fuck you, Amazon" for botching the gift wrap, which looked like it was scrabbled together by a disgruntled work experience lackey with missing fingers.

But I digress.

So, after watching all 264 episodes, I'm missing it immensely, strong emotions for a show that hasn't been in production for six years. I loved Cheers, but Frasier's on a different level altogether, standing atop a pedestal of perfection that it shares with so few other shows. It never once jumped the shark, remaining consistent in its format, tone and quality, and had the greatest ensemble cast from any sitcom ever. High praise from a person who's seen as many sitcoms as I have.

What do I love so much about it? Everything from the pilot episode "The Good Son" onwards was a master stroke. Kelsey Grammer is superb in the role, and going against the sitcom cliché of having a sibling who is the polar opposite for comedy effect, David Hyde Pierce playing his eerily similar brother Niles. The polar opposite comes in the form of John Mahoney playing their father Martin, his down-to-earth retired cop bursting the bubble of their pomposity. Normally, I hate 'comedy' animals in shows, but Martin's dog Eddie is brilliant. He has a far greater comedy skill than one Patrick Kielty could ever dream of.

The device of Frasier's radio show remains throughout (aside from a brief period where he lost his job, showing an accurate portrayal of a depressed man in denial), presided over by his producer, Roz Doyle (Peri Gilpin), filling the role of Frasier's best friend. KACL is home to a great supporting cast, from Dan Butler's sexist sports host Bob "Bulldog" Briscoe, to Ed Hibbert's gourmet Gil Chesterton, a man so far in the closet he can see Mr Tumnus.

The absolute best thing about Frasier? Niles's obsession with Martin's health worker, Daphne Moon (played by former Hill's Angel Jane Leeves affecting a Mancunian accent, unlike her screen brothers), unrequited for most of the show's run. It was beautifully played out, Daphne being completely unaware of his feelings until a medication-addled Frasier lets slip. Niles, in the meantime, was married to Maris, a vile, vicious socialite that we never see, much like Norm's wife Vera in Cheers. After everything we hear about Maris, it would have been impossible to cast her; they would have had to use CGI. When they finally divorce, you can feel the downtrodden Niles's relief, but they don't rush him into a relationship with the woman of his dreams. The pacing is impeccable. Niles's tic of dusting a seat before he sits is finally explained in a throwaway comment by Martin's fiancée Ronee in one of the final episodes. Every single loose end is tied up eventually.

In a nutshell, Frasier's wonderful. The characters develop realistically, and nothing's rushed. The production team were comfortable and confident enough to let things evolve at their own pace, but it never feels dragged out. It's extremely clever, but not afraid to delve into farce. You end up caring deeply about these characters, cringing when things go disastrously wrong, deliriously happy when things work out. There's no magic reset button at the end of episodes, continuity being a strong staple. Every available cast member of Cheers makes an appearance each in Frasier (aside from Kirsty Alley), and one thing becomes obvious; Frasier is the only character that would ever have worked in a spin-off. If you don't own Frasier, buy it. It's an utterly perfect show that went out on a dizzying high.

Now if only they could release Cheers past season 6 in the UK...

Falling In Love (Then Out Of Love) (Then In Love Again) With Comics

I love comics, me.

Ever since the early 80s, I've been a fan of mighty Marvel. Being from the UK, American comic books were difficult to get for someone not in the vicinity of a dedicated comic book store, so I loved the output of Marvel UK, weekly or fortnightly reprints of American material. The one comic I collected from its inception to its end was Transformers; at the end of its run, I retrospectively collected the US comic, despite having all of its stories in reprinted form. My brother used to buy Captain Britain and Secret Wars, and with reading those, along with cameo appearances from a freshly black-costumed Spider-Man, along with Nick Fury, back in the very early issues of Transformers, I became a massive fan of Marvel.

I loved the Spider-Man And His Amazing Friends animated series, watched the Fantastic Four cartoon (with the Human Torch replaced by the robot H.E.R.B.I.E., an urban myth surrounding that scenario which I recently learned the truth of), and was a casual fan during the 80s, my only fix of Marvel characters coming from very occasional back-up strips in Transformers, such as Iron Man, Machine Man, and Hercules. During the late 80s, my local newsagent started stocking random issues here and there of actual American Marvel comics, and I fell in love. Much as I love Transformers, and always have, this was something different. A huge universe of believable characters with foibles, I found myself adoring the format. UK Marvel publications had always consisted of A4-ish sized magazine format comics, with about 11 pages of the main story, a letters page, then 11 or so pages of back-up strip. Their American counterparts were something altogether different. A smaller format, the comics contained one story throughout, no back-up strips taking away any of the inertia and impetus of the main event. There was something exotic about seeing adverts for American products that weren't out in the UK, the paper quality, the smell, the Bullpen Bulletins... I felt immensely jealous of the American comic book buyers, able to get a multitude of comics like this every month. I saw the subscription page in the back, and how many titles Marvel published every month. Taking home my copies of Daredevil and Web of Spider-Man, this was the start of something much, much bigger for me. At the time, though, I consoled myself that the comics I bought were weekly, not monthly, and that our Transformers comic was infinitely superior to the American one (though that would soon change). All through this, I carried on drawing and writing, trying desperately to emulate the styles and subtleties of my favourite comic artists.

Not long after, Marvel UK launched Death's Head, a spin-off from Transformers. He was a bounty hunter (or freelance peacekeeping agent, as he preferred to be called) who, in its parent title, had been introduced when Rodimus Prime put a 10,000 shanix reward on Galvatron's head. Death's Head managed to destroy Bumblebee, kill Shockwave and help defeat Unicron in his time in Transformers, before winding his way into Marvel continuity in a bizarre way. After getting caught in the explosion of Unicron's time portal, he was thrown through time, colliding with the Tardis in the Doctor Who Magazine's comic strip. From there, he was sent by the Doctor into Dragon's Claws, then into his own comic, which was in the American format. In that, over the course of ten issues, he fought the Fantastic Four and Iron Man of 2020. My favourite comic was, in a very convoluted way, linked directly into the expansive Marvel continuity (as was the Doctor, strangely enough).

Apologies for the quality of the pic, by the way, it was done on a very poor art package in the early part of the century. Anyway, through Death's Head appearing in the Fantastic Four's own American comic (issue 338, if I remember correctly), and She-Hulk issue 24, I started buying comics by mail order. Cosmic Comics was the company, and I became a regular. As an opening offer, they sent a copy of The Avengers Annual issue 10, featuring Rogue's first appearance. It reopened a love of characters I read back in Secret Wars, and soon my collection was building. Then, I discovered the Comix Shoppe in Swansea, and I found myself spending a lot of money every month on my standing order. Every one of the X-Men titles, Amazing Spider-Man, Venom's spin-off stuff, and, for a while, every Batman title (during the Knightfall crossover, and my only DC stuff), and some of the Marvel UK stuff. I bought loads of graphic novels to catch up on stuff I'd missed, and discovered loads of artists and writers I'd missed out on in my formative years. The X-Men animated series was shown, followed by Spider-Man, and I was in awe of the faithful adaptations of stories I'd read. It was a Bold New Era for me, but, unbeknownst to me at the time, the beginning of the end.

Marvels was released, a stunning limited series with painted artwork by Alex Ross, retelling the Marvel Universe from the perspective of an ordinary man from the 1940s to present day, and to this day, one of my favourite comics series. But, from visiting the Comix Shoppe, more and more content on the shelves had a cover gimmick of some kind, be it a foil logo or gatefold cover. Venom had several mini-series released, back to back, the first issue of each having a 'special' cover. Marvel's X-Men crossover, Fatal Attractions, featured a hologram on every cover of its books one month, as one 'event' after another was touted to get people to buy comics. Wolverine had the adamantium ripped out of his body. Spider-Man's parents returned from the dead. Wolverine appeared in most comics every month. It was getting tiresome. The industry had fallen victim to the speculators; people who were buying comics en masse because they believed that they would be worth something, so a flashy cover overtook the importance of content. To my mind, the quality was suffering, and I backed out of buying comics. I felt cheated. I didn't want to be a part of it any more.

Over the next ten years or so, I dipped in and out of comics; art styles had changed, and my dream of becoming a published comics artist seemed more distant than ever. My style was influenced by people who were working throughout the 70s, 80s and early 90s, but everything had changed. My style would never fit in with the new stuff. Computer colouring had taken over; I'd heard about the Heroes Reborn stuff that Marvel had done, and realised that during my sabbatical, things had become worse. I heard about their Ultimate line of books, rebooting heroes with a modern twist. I hated that idea. I hate anything that fucks around with established continuity. I learned later that they were separate from the main continuity, so I choose to continue ignoring them. So anyway, this century we've had big screen adaptations of Spider-Man, X-Men, Daredevil, Fantastic Four, Iron Man and the Incredible Hulk, and I watched them all enthusiastically, and that voice at the back of my mind was yelling at me to reignite my love of comics. We'd parted on bad terms. Perhaps it was time to make up.

From buying the Secret Wars graphic novel last year, I suddenly found myself wanting more. At Christmas, my wife bought me Marvel Chronicle, a massive year-by-year history of the company from the late 30s to present day. It was fantastic. I read more about storylines that I'd only heard about and knew little about before, such as Civil War. I decided to finally set up a web comic that I'd been planning for years, which has its barest origins back in 1993. Originally, it was going to be an X-Men spin-off, X-Corps, but I couldn't keep up with characters; my main characters all had their names used by Marvel within months of me starting my initial designs, and I lost faith in myself. Even X-Corps has been used by them now. Anyway, it's now called Destinauts, and aside from the design of the main character, absolutely everything is different to what I started 16 years ago. But finally, it's coming. I can put it online with no drawbacks like deadlines, and people can read it or not. It's something that I really want to do. This week, you'll see the first few character previews, and if you choose to read it, I thank you enormously.

The other day, my wife bought me Spider-Man: Visionaries, a collection of early 80s stuff, and 2004's Civil War. The styles and tone are vastly different between the two, but they're both incredible. I have fallen back in love with comics, and I hope they can forgive me for leaving them for so long.

Incidentally, I'm actually avoiding the current Transformers comics, as they're going for the multiple covers for the same comic angle. I can't be a completist any more, like I used to be, so as one love gets rekindled, another fades into dust. It's a funny old world.

Dance Magic Dance

I think there's something wrong with me.

Approximately 1/5 of the population of the UK is currently, or has been, involved in one of the myriad of dance shows clogging up the poorly television schedules, either side of remixed Envirofone adverts, and companies creating a criminal culture by encouraging them to break into people's houses to liberate them of their unwanted 'scrap' gold. I seem to be the only person that hates this prospect. Now, I can't dance. I mean, I can dance. Of course I can. I can dance really, really badly. Although in many ways I'd like my youth back, one thing I don't miss is the feeling of self-conciousness as I wildly flail my arms around and jump on the spot, sloshing beer around onto people who, on the one hand, seemed to have absolutely no problem with looking like idiots, and on the other were old enough to know better. Dancing is one of those things you hear about; it's not something you ever expect to happen to yourself.

TV's becoming swamped with it. I thought it was bad enough with Dancing On Ice, which most of us have been involuntarily doing with hilarious consequences since New Year's Day (incidentally, please send my brother Andy your best wishes after he broke his arm by slipping over in That London the other day), not to mention these two:

Watching a thick, gobby, lobotomised yoghurt saleswoman mugging for the camera in the shadow of Brucie's chinny death mask is painful at best, clogging up the Samaritans hotline at worst. Perhaps one of the many reasons Brucie agreed to Strictly rather than Dancing On Ice is that he would act as a gritter with his rictus chin and death rattle doddery shedding dust all around. But, they've been successful, because people like watching mediocre, personality-bereft show-offs desperately seeking attention; those that don't do the dancing host the tie-in shows. In the worst knee-jerk reaction since somebody plugged Stephen Hawking into the mains when he was asleep, we're now getting three of the bastard things in one fell swoop. Ironically, it can be classified under 'variety'.

After the hilariously awful-sounding Michael Jackson grave-robbing that BBC Three had just before Christmas, the Corporation That Also Brought You Big Top have just launched So You Think You Can Dance. I covered that very question in the opening of this blog, so I won't go into that more than I need to. Shameless me-me-mes flounce around for the dubious judging abilities of That One From Eternal With The Hamster Face and That One From The Other Dancing Show Who Was Fired For Being Too Old Despite The Presence Of Brucie for a disproportionately high £100,000 prize, the bafflingly US-successful Cat Deeley (which sounds like something you put on your pet to break their confidence) hosting. I know no more than that. It sounds singularly dreadful.

Meanwhile, Britain's Favourite Lowest Common Denominator Channel, ITV1, has the next series of Dancing On Ice, hosted by Blonde Clone #6 (Holly Whatshername) and Pip Schofield (in a further attempt by the channel to destroy the reputation of a prematurely greying man), with the opportunity to watch the caved-in face of Daniella Westbrook turn into Pauline Fowler with every passing moment, and, fingers crossed, Heather Mills falling flat on her work-shy arse. As I cannot stomach even the thought of looking at any of those people without projectile-vomiting my retinas against the wall, it's not enough to tempt me to watch.

Sky One continue their inevitable path of Becoming Worse Than ITV1 with Got To Dance. It's judged by That Other One From The Pussycat Dolls Who Isn't Whatshername, some West End 'star' that I've never heard of (so therefore 'a person', as 'star' is probably taking it a tad too far), and one of the hoodies from Britain's Got Talent winners Diversity. Oh, the irony of the name. It's hosted by reality TV purgatory-dweller Davina McCall, freshly chipper after foraging for nuts.

So, there we go. Yet another national obsession forced down our retching throats. In the tradition of TV this century so far, we're told to like these things, or lump it. Soon, it'll be wall-to-wall roller disco. Next year, it'll be cross-channel sports wannabes. I'm holding out the hope that we'll get some sort of Logan's Run-style survival challenge in the near future, wiping smug, bland, mediocre, shit-brained show-offs out of fucking existence, and the banal hosts along with them. There is a place for reality TV. It's in small doses in small pockets of scheduling where I can happily ignore it, not across the fucking Radio Times. There should be room for fresh new comedy and drama too, but as we've just had Big Top, I don't think that's going to happen any time soon. Maybe if I did a little dance on Mark Thompson's desk, he might snap out of the ratings-driven trance he's in. Chase ratings by all means, but look past the jerking knees for other solutions.

The Abominable Snow Coverage

I, like every single other person who writes a blog in the world, feel compelled to mention the snow. There, I've done it.

Actually, I must mention the fact that I'm utterly delighted that my two kids were able to enjoy it yesterday. My 6 year old son Ethan decided to come back inside after 10 minutes. Probably because my 3 year old daughter Keira decided to keep pelting him with snowballs.

This moment of happiness for me, as a father, was tainted somewhat by some little bastards deciding to throw snowballs at my window. They did it to all of the neighbours, too. It's the same kids who kept nicking roses from my garden. Yes, I'm turning into a grumpy old curmudgeonly bastard.

Since the Eskimos have 1000 words for how excited British news reporters get about snow, it's no surprise that it's received blanket coverage (unfortunate pun intended) over the telly in the past couple of days. Of course, that's because it was snowing in the South East. My parents, who live in mid-Wales, have been literally snowed in for 3 weeks, snow half-way up their walls. Wales has barely had a mention on the news regarding the only killer in the world that's so loved by everyone, a bit like if Idi Amin made the Wonga man 'disappear'.

Mind you, BBC Cymru Wales doesn't do itself any favours. Okay, as a production company it's responsible for Doctor Who, Life on Mars, and, soon, Casualty. But, since I was a child, I've found it uncomfortably elitist. For example, their continuity announcers will excitedly point out any forthcoming appearances of anything or anybody Welsh in the next programme, their news reporters are told to over-emphasise Welsh language pronunciations, and their reporters all think they're major celebrities. I don't know what regional programming is like where you are, but here's an example of the anachronistic tat I had to endure at Christmas:

This was the show where I lost all respect for Ruth Jones. You see how obsessed she was in pointing out his Welsh roots? Every guest on the show was Welsh, apart from James Corden, who was there as a favour to his writing partner, or perhaps because he thought there wasn't quite enough of him on TV, so he thought he'd invade regional TV as well. They even wheeled out local weather presenter/egotist Derek Brockway in some bizarre mangling of a comedy sketch/song, under the misapprehension that local people will find this funny, or be amazed at the major celebrity they managed to secure. I don't know where to begin with how utterly awful this thing was. It was all very ITV in its operation, back-slapping, sycophantic, arse licking, musical numbers, a studio audience consisting of infirm simpletons, patronising to the core. I'm proud to be Welsh (not overly patriotic or anything; I don't speak the language, but I do love my country), but this 1970s-style third-channel, fourth-rate nonsense spoke volumes. I'm embarrassed by the thought of anyone outside of Wales seeing it. Um, whoops.

So, that lightweight drivel of a chat show leads me onto the news today that Jonathan Ross is leaving the BBC, coincidentally just after Graham Norton signs a two-year deal with them. Speculation's been rife on who should replace him on his chat show. Norton's probably going to get it, but beware, Graham, promotion via dead-man's-boots can lead to an uphill struggle for popularity. Just look at the Prime Minister. I don't object to him getting the gig (if he does), so long as the Beeb stop restricting him. His Channel 4 show was brilliant, but his BBC stuff has been so-so (I'm full of shit puns today). It'd never happen, but I think Simon Amstell would have been a good left-field choice, and Stephen Fry would be amazing (that'll never happen in a million years). Why can't they just get some heavyweight interviewer instead?

I'm just worried that his decision to leave was based on my decision to copyright the name "Film 2010".

Anyway, in the next few days, the excitement about the snow will turn back into terror, as it stops snowing and freezing over instead. Until Sunday, when it starts snowing again, then the childish glee once more commences, and people send their wonderful snow pictures to the news channels. I hope they show mine:

International Bono Fun Day

He's only trying to save the bloody world again. Yesterday, He decided to announce His ideas about further policing the internet, citing China as a fine example of how to do it. Speaking from Da Vinci's The Last Supper, He had several detractors, who He decided to smite as Biblically as possible. So, here we present some Bono Facts. If you don't worship at His altar now, you'd better bloody be doing it by the end of this piece, lest He unleash a plague.

• Bono came up with the phrase, "There's no 'i' in 'Bonio'".

• Bono backwards is "O'Nob", which is His real surname. Coincidentally, it's what people shout at Him in the street.

• In the Mirror Universe in Star Trek, Bono is known as Boyes.

• Bono's real name is Arthur Mullard.

• "Bono" is short for "Bonofication".

• "Bono" is an anagram of "Boon"; this is because the character of Bono was based loosely on Michael Elphick.

• His favourite fruit is the bonono.

• His speech impediment meant that the meaning of "Someday, Bloody Someday" was changed forever.

• U2 is a UB40 tribute band.

• Always unselfish, Bono enjoys watching the other members of U2 playing Russian Roulette.

• Bono created The Edge using a ruler with a lenticular Chesney Hawkes image and a set square.

• Um Bono, Um Bono, They Drink It In The Cono.

• Bono is the superhero identity of Christopher Lillicrap.

• Bon-O used to be Lord of the Thundercats.

• Ironically, Bono is a French word which literally translates as "Good-O".

• Nostradamus predicted Bono, but forgot to tell anyone.

• Despite leaving them some years before, the Chuckle Brothers survived Bono's departure.

• The News at Ten "bongs" used to be called "bonos" until He copyrighted the sound effect.

• Bono's starsign is Ophiuchus.

• Bono uses His private jet to fly next door to Adam Clayton's house every month.

• The Bono Dog Doo Dah Band were a self-righteous messiah-complex-suffering comedy jazz rock/psychadelic avant garde combo.

• A "Noob" is internet slang for "anagram of Bono".

• U2 get their unique sound by sampling old U2 records.

• Bono will be on BBC1's Autumn 2010 schedule in the heart-warming Bono'll Fix It.

• The name BONO is designed to look like a close up of a man wearing glasses.

• "BoNo" is prison shorthand for "Boring Nonce".

• Bono's favourite Singer is Marc "Beastmaster" Singer.

• Bono is a spin-off from the Hanna-Barbera 70s cartoon, Banjo Bono and the Troubleshooters.

• Bono's dream band would consist of Bono, Paul Hewson, PD Hewson KBE, and Ali Hewson's husband.

• Bono's arch nemesis is Taste and Decency.

• BONO stands for Being Of Nazarene Origin.

• Bono has a working time machine. Nobody can be sure of the damage He's done to history.

• "BONO" stood for "Bring Own Noose Only" in medieval hangings.

• The Bono Rangers are humanity's saviours in the amazing year fifty billion.

• Butter, Orange, Nutmeg and Oats are the main ingredients in Bono's favourite cake.

• Bono's evil twin is called Nono.

• Bono exists in 3 forms; a computer virus, the air we breathe, and The Human Form of Jesus Christ On Planet Earth.

• Bono has severe nerve damage from licking His own bottom, so the 'sweetest thing' He can taste is beetroot.

• "Bono" stands for "Bless Our Natural Order", an early BNP tagline.

• Bono doesn't know the meaning of the word "modest", because He was off school that day with messianitis.

• Bono's carbon footprint has its own postcode.

• Bono wants to save the rainforests, because it's where His treehouse is.

• David Tennant is to play Bono in a biopic.

• Bono is to play David Tennant in a biopic.

• Bono's first foray into sitcom writing was the classic Big Top.

• Bono has discovered the secret of powered flight in humans, and is invisible to radar.

• Bono once flew around the planet backwards in His private jet, reversing time. He was able to save His hat from an earthquake.

• Bono has his own economy and currency. One Bonopound is worth about 30p. A Bonopenny is that secretary from the Bond films.

• Bono's U2 bandmates are Rono, Dono and Adam Clayton.

• You know that thing you thought of earlier? Bono thought of it first.

• If Bono falls over in a forest, job done.

• Bono's favourite subject, One, was made famous in a song.

• Bono's biggest influence, other than Bono, is Josh Ward from the T Mobile ads.

• Bono has copyrighted the word "Wonga".

• Bono was bitten by a radioactive spider, and learned a valuable lesson when His Uncle Bon was killed.

• It is cold, for it is Bono's will. He left His fridge open, and we all must suffer.

• It's not raining. It's Bono crying for the orphans.

• Bono has His own personal militia, but Adam Clayton's flat feet results in a paltry desk job.

• Bono is prone to 'file sharing' official secrets to the Taliban.

• At Xmas, every department store has its own Bono in place to give the gift of hope to children that sit on His sacred knee.

• Bono's personal fortune has looped past infinity back to bankrupt. Spare some change for a cup o' tea?

• Bono was based on The Very Hungry Caterpillar.

• Bono formed His School For Gifted Youngsters in Westchester, NY, to help train young mutants to use their powers.

• The subterranean-dwelling Morlocks formed their society based on His teachings.

• There was outrage when the Church claimed that Jesus was bigger than Bono.

• Bono has a secret lair hidden in a volcano.

• Bono has fathered most of the world's population, including you.

• If you squeeze Bono, His glasses swell up like balloons.

• Bono had His sense of humour surgically removed in 1982.

• Bono has His head so far up His arse, He can see a Q journalist's shoes.

I hope you've all learned a little something about Him. His wisdom must be adhered to. I mean, it's not as if He's some out-of-touch rock star with a messiah complex or anything. Deary me, no.

Happy St Bono's Day, one and all.