Page 45 Review by Stephen
"I worry about what to write on stretches like this.
"I could meditate on some demon or issue. But I'm not ready to let you in yet.
"Or I could research the birds that frequent this here reserve.
"Yeah, I could use the bird watching book my dad bought me when I was a kid. He'd written inside: "To Oliver, who watches birds and dreams of flying. x"
"How the hell would he know? He barely knew me.
"Sorry, let the mask slip there. Better reign it in. So. Birds are nice..."
Everyone in the comicbook industry gets a thank-you in the back except me which wounds my egomaniacal pride to the core. What's rubbish old Paul Gravett done for this series that I haven't? Who even is this Paul Gravett he speaks of?* Ah well, no worries! You'll perhaps have seen me rave about this series before, in which anorak East strolls out onto the train tracks and simply takes his leisurely time in documenting his perambulations, observations and silliness he sees there. Brilliant. But now... now in this self-contained little ticket the man has achieved poetry: visual and literary poetry, and I don't mean that in the mock-denigratory way I usually refer to that particular medium. I mean that he has elevated his craft from the ridiculous to the sublime. It is beautiful, with a grace that few can muster. There's the ghost of cat which slinks its way through a series of perfect panels, floating through their borders; the train tracks which curl their serpentine way round the high-rise office blocks like an industrialised boa constrictor; the canal that makes an island of a warehouse; and the colours... the colours are... that's what I mean by "grace". As to the writing, I have no other option but to quote and quote again:
"I vaguely chastise myself for being disappointed that there's no tramps under the arches between Sackville Street and Princess Street.
"It's a good thing no one's sleeping there. Good for them.
"They would have been nice to draw, though.
"I feel shame's hand pulling me on."
For regular followers of this series, I should mention that #4 doesn't exist. Well, it does: it's an original piece of art - a one-off one-shot that only one of you can buy for a very large sum of money. As Neil Curtis said with a big, broad grin, "Bloody artists, eh?" Perhaps it's gone by now, and I am a twit for not being that one patron that could and should have bought it himself. I never said I was perfect. This, however, is and it just beat Dave fucking Sim to Comicbook Of The Month. I think I may have to send an advance copy to Clan Chief Campbell. This is everything Eddie originally set out to achieve with his own autobiography, and Oliver seems to be not only a natural successor, but a very worthy one at that. Keep going, Oliver!
* [Please note: Paul Gravett is neither old nor rubbish. We're mates.]
