Warts and all

I caught the second half of ‘Embarrassing Bodies’ on Channel 4 last night. The idea is that they set up a mobile doctor’s surgery in the middle of a town centre and encourage people to come in and talk to the doctors about their embarrassing problems. Too shy to discuss it with your regular GP? Then why not talk to a stranger while a camera crew film everything! I mean, fair play to these people – it takes bravery and if it encourages others to overcome their fears then it’s a good thing – but I can’t help wondering what happens to them after the show is aired. If you were to appear on a game show, for example, you’d probably ring round and tell everyone. Your neighbour would mention it in the morning, joke about getting an autograph, everyone at work would do the same. It would be fun to bask in your mild, fleeting fame. But this? Would you warn Auntie Rita to set her Sky+ for an in-depth analysis of your piles? Would you keep it to yourself and pray that everyone missed it, carefully concocting a cover story about an unfortunate doppelganger who happens to share your name? Would you get into work and find that a colleague had put it on YouTube and emailed it round the office? It wouldn’t just be your family and friends though. You’d be in the fruit and veg aisle at Tesco when some old lady taps you on the shoulder.

Lady: “Excuse me, do I know you?”
WPM: “I don’t think so.”
Lady: “Are you sure? You look awfully familiar.”
WPM: “I think you’re mistaken. Sorry.”
Lady: “Oh, I know what it was! You were on telly the other night – you’re the Warty Penis Man!”
WPM: “Well, er…”
Lady: “How’s it going? Have they cleared up now?”
WPM: “Fine, yes. Now if you’ll excuse me…”
Lady: “Oh, I don’t mean to bother you, but could you just sign this over-ripe banana for me?”

It’s on again tonight, if you’re feeling brave.

Facebook update

Yesterday I rather naïvely spoke of removing myself from Facebook. I assumed it would be a three or four step process but, of course, it’s not. There is no obvious means of deleting a Facebook account – you can only ‘deactivate’ it. This hides your profile from view but retains all of the personal information. Facebook claims that they are helping us by only including this option, because if we change our minds then we can reactivate the account and it will appear exactly as it did before. Well, how kind of them. See how they know our minds better than we do? See how they can second guess our decision making? Presumably, at least, there’s a long winded process to restore a deactivated account? For security reasons? Nnnnnnno. You just log in as before and it reappears. Brilliant. Even without reactivating, your friends can still invite you to things and tag you in photos. It’s like you never left!

Facebook, you are crooks. If I want to remove my account, I want it removed completely and I shouldn’t have to fight you to do it. I did a quick search for more permanent methods of deletion and came across this amusing article which should nonetheless scare you.

I was expecting to feel a sense of elation at being free, but I don’t feel free at all. It’s like splitting up with a partner but still living with them. As much as I disliked MySpace, at least they had the decency to let me make a clean break.

Meanwhile, on a brighter note, I have embarked upon a campaign of promotion for the comic. If you see the battle bus on its travels, do give it a wave.

Graham is banging his head against the desk

Hattie’s entertaining post about Facebook reminded me that I needed to update my contact details to include the Doormat Picnic site. When I logged in to do so I was greeted by a new instant messaging feature which, by default, makes you available to ‘chat’ with any of your friends who happen to be logged in also. Where the hell did that come from? And more importantly, WHY? This feature has instantly changed Facebook from being hugely annoying to unbearably annoying. Perhaps you can turn off the IM in the preferences, but to be honest I didn’t stick around long enough to find out.

Fair enough, I’m not your typical Facebook user. I have a modest 20 friends, never update my status (because who, truthfully, gives a toss?) and log in once in a blue moon. I found the site enjoyable for about a week after I first joined – all those old school photos, finding out what everyone was up to and how they look now – but then the honeymoon was over. And the requests started piling up. ‘A’ wants to know which character in The Bill you most resemble! ‘B’ has just scored 80% on a Les Dennis trivia quiz – can you beat them? ‘C’ is showing you his pants – why not show him yours? It doesn’t matter how many friends you have, you’re bound to have one who installs every single bloody application they can find. If it drives me to distraction with just 20 friends, I can only imagine how awful it would be if I were popular. The number of times I’ve hit the ‘ignore’ button is close to the number of times I’ve considered removing myself from the site. So why haven’t I? Well, I always reasoned that I wouldn’t want to miss out if someone I really liked wanted to make contact. It’s unlikely, but there’s always a chance. I think, however, that the IM thing has tipped the balance.

The concept of instant messaging sends a chill through my bones. I’ve only ever done it twice. The second time was merely to ensure that my first time hadn’t been an unfortunate and unrepresentative experience. It wasn’t. It’s terrifying. The idea that somebody else knows when you’re online and is able to invade your desktop is horror worthy of Hitchcock. It’s not like a phone call where you can pretend you’re not in – you’re there, and they know it. You have to respond. There’s no escape.

I like to be in total control of how I’m contacted. My landline has caller display and if I don’t recognise the number I never answer it. Even if I do know who it is, I have the option of ignoring them. The same, of course, is true of my mobile. I also live in fear of running into someone I know at Tescos. If speaking can be avoided, that’s the option I’ll take – at work I fax orders rather than phone them through and email customers if possible. Email, I’ve decided, is the most perfect means of communication ever invented (notwithstanding all the spam).

So if (or as seems increasingly likely, when) I remove myself from Facebook, I don’t think they’ll be too sad about it. They won’t be losing a staunch ambassador. Maybe this modern world has left me behind, or maybe I’m just a reclusive bore. I haven’t decided. One thing’s for sure though – when I finally make up my mind, you won’t hear about it on Facebook.

Pearls of wisdom

I have a sore wisdom tooth. Or rather, a sore gum caused by the arrival of a wisdom tooth. This particular wisdom tooth has been half in, half out for the past three years and becomes uncomfortable every few months. I keep hoping that one day it will get its toothy arse in gear and emerge fully but so far it remains stuck. As things stand, I only have two and a half wisdom teeth despite being two weeks shy of my 31st birthday. This morning I decided to find out whether this was abnormal or not. Among the information I managed to garner from Google was that most people get their wisdom teeth between the ages of 18 – 25, but it’s possible to have more, or fewer, than four. So maybe my lower right back molar will forever be deprived of an end terrace extension.

I was also curious as to why we get wisdom teeth in the first place. It seems that they’re an evolutionary hangover from when we had larger jaws, which would explain why they take longer to force their way through. But 31 years? That’s just slack.

Rejected titles for this post:
The tooth, the whole tooth and nothing but the tooth
I am a molar and I live in a hole
Jaw: The Revenge

Snip snip snip go the pinking shears

It’s early days, but I’m already feeling blogging pressure. You know, that sensation that you should be posting something to appease the baying masses (of four of five people) when really you have nothing to say. It’s entirely self-imposed, but my internal dialogue goes something like this:

Compulsive self: You didn’t post anything yesterday. That means you have to post today or everyone will assume you’ve lost interest and will never check the blog again.
Rational self: It really doesn’t matter. If there’s nothing to say, don’t force it.
Compulsive self: But you should force it. It will get you into the routine, kick-start your brain and stop you getting lazy.
Rational self: No one wants to read your rambling, unfocused posts. They’d rather wait for something more considered and ‘weighty’. Actually, come to think of it, they probably couldn’t give a toss either way.
Compulsive self: But today’s a non-comic day! The site is getting stale!
Rational self: Oh, go on then. Just make sure you throw in an obscure title to add interest.

I think on this occasion my rational self capitulated too easily.

Cold compress

When it was first announced that downloaded music would count towards chart placings, a small tear of regret weaved its way down my grimacing face. It was solid proof, against my stubborn denial, that MP3s were here to stay. Now, I’m not a luddite by any means and innovation in technology is something I embrace, but this was different. As far as I was concerned, music was something to be loved and worshipped in all its glory – not compressed and distributed without artwork. Surely the artwork is crucial? Not a PDF file tagged to your download, but a proper paper booklet with the smell of a newly printed document. Often, the whole mood of an album is dictated by its sleeve. It’s part of the record, not an optional appendage.

But this isn’t a new complaint. The same thing happened when CDs slowly replaced vinyl; audiophiles moaned (and still do) that while CDs were a step forward in convenience, they were a big step backwards in sound quality and artwork. Gone were the big, 12” gatefold sleeves and in came tiny, soulless booklets behind polycarbonate windows. And now it’s happened again. Downloads are another strike for convenience but sound quality has taken a further, more pronounced, blow. And surely it won’t be long before most albums are available for download only and bands won’t even need to design a sleeve.

I still think it’s sad, but I no longer have the right to complain. Why? Because most of the music I buy these days is downloaded. I could be petty about it and vote with my feet but I’d be doing so at the expense of my better interests. Downloading does have benefits and it’s easy to see why it’s so popular; you can take your whole album collection on the move with you. You can cherry pick the songs you want without committing to a whole album. It saves on plastic and paper. You can buy an album at any time of day without leaving the house, and it’s cheaper (if not quite cheap enough). On balance, these are undeniable improvements. So I’m reluctantly on board.

Anyway, all of that was just a distracting preamble to what I was originally going to post about which is album durations. Last night I downloaded three albums: Accelerate by REM, The Age of the Understatement by The Last Shadow Puppets and Seventh Tree by Goldfrapp. The first two both clock in at 35 minutes, and if you strip away the bonus tracks on the Goldfrapp record it limps home at 41. Is it me, or are albums getting shorter? In the old days, a solid 45 minutes was the least you’d expect from an LP. I remember when Morrissey’s Kill Uncle was released there were gasps of horror that it was only 33 minutes long. How could he short change us so blatantly? Now, it’s barely an issue. Concise songwriting is all very well, but surely a couple of extra tracks wouldn’t be too hard to manage would they? You still pay the same for a short album, after all. If artists were forced to offer their work at a lower price for failing to meet a certain duration, I suspect they’d be keener to wring out a few more tracks.

Creative movement

I have had the comic-creating equivalent of constipation for the past two weeks, which isn’t at all pleasant. The launch of the site last Monday coincided with my completion of the first story (I’m a few weeks ahead of the updates), and with all the effort and relief of finally getting things up and running I hadn’t given much thought to story two.

I’ve always been bad at plotting. From my early teens I fostered long running delusions of being a writer, which might have been a good idea if I could i) write proper, and ii) think of something to write about. Both are pretty essential, so to have neither was a handicap I couldn’t overcome, despite my plucky (pathetic) efforts.

Anyway – to cut to the chase – the constipation has now ended and I managed to produce two new strips yesterday from the rumbling bowels of my creative mind (I’m starting to regret this analogy). Not big news, perhaps, but a relief nonetheless. All creative people will know the empty feeling of staring at a blank sheet of paper, or blinking cursor, knowing that time is running out. Pressure is a good motivator though, and if you have to do something you usually manage it – without the need for ex-lax.

For want of experience

I must apologise for the artwork in today’s strip (#006), which is below par. When I drew it I thought it was passable, but the problem with updating three days per week is that each strip has to occupy the front page for at least two days, during which every flaw is painfully festering until its successor arrives to sweep it away. It’s not just the artwork, it’s the writing as well. If you don’t make much of an effort it just lingers. It’s a bit like when you turn over your calendar at the start of the month and take a dislike to the image, knowing that you'll just have to put up with it for the next four weeks. My only excuse is that I’m new to this and still learning. I don’t intend to beat myself up about it too much – improvement and development are part of the process – but in future I intend to have a higher quality control threshold.

Okay, that’s it. I’m not going to grovel.

Drug of the nation

This is a time when I should be knuckling down and creating comics, but I’ve found myself distracted by the TV this week. On Monday there was a documentary on Five (which now has the best documentaries of any channel) about a man whose limbs resemble tree branches because they’re covered in warty growths. Here he is:

 
Next time you get a spot, remember that it could be worse.  I started off feeling sorry for him, but then a skin specialist flew in from the States (tree man lives in a remote part of Indonesia) to diagnose the problem and come up with a solution. We were told that tree man was desperate for a cure. After a great deal of hard work, a course of treatment was decided. Hooray! But then tree man changed his mind because it would ruin his career as a travelling circus freak. Boo! Surely having hands and feet would be preferable? Honestly.

Then last night I watched Child Genius on Channel 4, which raised the thorny issue of whether the parents of gifted offspring should help them realise their potential as soon as possible or just let them be kids. I think I’d be in favour of the latter. Being super-intelligent tends to create more problems than it solves, I think. Not that I would know. All these kids seemed isolated though. I’m grateful that I was raised by parents who just let me be, with no pressure whatsoever to take a certain path. Okay, I’ve ended up as a geek who stays in every night drawing comics (and watching more TV than I should) but I’m happy with that. I am!

Biggest TV disappointment of the week was Dom Joly’s Complainers, also on Five. I only got half way through it. The ‘highlight’ was supposed to be when they applied a wheel clamp to a clamper’s van. Ho ho! A taste of his own medicine! Surely he’ll be spitting mad and we can all laugh at him! Well, no. He just shrugged and called his boss. Rubbish.

Scaremongering

Today’s news bombshell that vitamin pills may actually be harmful has finally convinced me to ignore all future media health warnings. It’s fairly obvious now that no one has the faintest idea what they’re talking about. I don’t take vitamins, as it happens. As a vegan it is often suggested that I should, but I’m quite happy that I’m getting all the nutrients I need from my food. Only last week, my friend Ariane suggested that I wasn’t getting enough protein and would probably be dead by the weekend*. The trouble is, every source you seek will give you a different recommendation and you’re only ever likely to listen to the sources that confirm the opinion you’ve already formed. I was curious enough to check the Vegan Society website, and left satisfied that I was not only getting enough protein, but possibly too much. And too much could be dangerous! According to them, protein requirements in adults are often exaggerated. I’m sure if I’d done more research I would have found a site that told me the absolute opposite. Last week two articles caught my eye – one claimed that drinking the much quoted 8 glasses of water a day had no measurable benefits to health or complexion. The other suggested that the people who live longest are those who don’t obsessively worry about their health. The crux of the piece was that stressing about what is or what isn’t good for us just increases anxiety and ultimately shortens our lives. Most centenarians have never dieted or been to the gym, they just keep active and enjoy life. I’m fairly convinced that 90 per cent of all food on sale today is, or contains, something which has been liked to cancer or ill-health at some point. While there are certain things we all know for sure (too much fat is bad, smoking is not advisable, watching The X Factor will induce suicidal tendencies), there’s plenty of knowledge that we defer to so-called experts who are probably just guessing or at best basing their research on irrelevant studies on mice. What do mice know?

* This sentence may contain dramatic embellishment.

Small ideas

Most websites these days have favicons – those little icons that appear in the address bar of your browser as a miniature graphical representation of the site. If you don’t have one, the browser displays a boring default image that conveys the message: This website is rubbish! It doesn’t even have a favicon! So, in order to avoid cruel taunts and wagging fingers I must come up with an image that represents the site within a 16 x 16 pixel square. That really isn’t very big. Firstly I thought about a picnic basket, but at that size it just looks like a brown blob. Some sites just use the initials of the domain, but DP is a rather unfortunate acronym that I don’t intend to utilise. So, as something spherical is ideal, I’m thinking of using a basketball. A picnic basketball. That’s not too tenuous is it?

How about an ant? Would an ant be better?

Please wipe your feet

Well, the site is now 'live' and I am running an active webcomic for the first time. It feels a bit odd after three years of failed attempts. My friend Ariane called me earlier and asked if I was excited, but it's been so long coming that excitement has been replaced by a strange apology of relief and trepidation. It feels like the start of a long journey and I'm expecting a few blisters.

Ever on the lookout for ways to improve my work, I purchased a book called 'Anatomy for the Artist' today. I'm a lot better at drawing people than I used to be, but a lot worse than I'd like to be. I don't think the book is intended for comic artists - well of course it isn't - but my characters have reasonably realistic proportions (or at least they're supposed to), and I thought it would be a useful reference. So I picked up my copy from the shelf. On the front cover is a naked man. On the back cover is a naked woman. I suppressed a foolish sense of embarrassment and marched confidently to the till. After waiting an eternity for some divot to order a book from another branch, I handed over the book and tried not to look like someone who would buy a book full of naked people for reasons other than artistic ones. Given that I was wearing a football shirt, having just come from watching a match, I don't think that I was very successful in assuming the air of an artist. I was also a bit hoarse (we won the match) and so when the guy on the till asked me something I sounded like a wrong-un who doesn't get out much. All in all it wasn't a great experience. To top things off, he smirked when he asked if I wanted a bag for my purchase. Had he uttered the words 'brown' and 'paper', I may have run away.