News And Reviews Underneath!
Black Monday Murders vol 1: All Hail God Mammon s/c (£17-99, Image) by Jonathan Hickman & Tomm Coker.
Most of us have no idea.
All we see is the investment bankers’ greed, their ruthlessness, their obscene material wealth and their seeming immunity when things go wrong at our expense.
But with Russian plutocrat Viktor Eresko in particular, this invulnerability, this impregnability which you can hear in every word he speaks seems derived from something far older and much more substantial than mere wealth. Lesser men would mistake his assured self-confidence for arrogance. It’s not. It is knowledge.
Ignorance is bliss. Things once seen cannot be unseen, so be careful what you go looking for. Clue: on the cover one of the co-creators is listed as Abaddon…
Big, fat-cat package of occult crime fiction exposing investment banking as a deal with the devil, and in which conspiracy theory turns out to be decades of carefully constructed practice. Surprising no one.
If you were spellbound by Brubaker and Phillips with Breitweiser in KILL OR BE KILLED with its exceptional psychological exploration of a single man on his way to murder, then this will make your head spin.
BLACK MONDAY MURDERS is all kinds of uncommonly clever. It’s interactive, and it is only fitting for a crime comic that you’re invited to do some detective work yourself.
I’ll return you to the plot in due course, but I spent hours on its design as a package alone. As early as THE NIGHTLY NEWS Jonathan Hickman bowled us all over with his eye for design and his reaching ambition for what you could do with a comic. When freed from the constraints of superhero comics – which he nonetheless infused with his own unique, upmarket and intelligent, quite beautiful branding – Hickman can be, in his own very different way, a craftsman akin to Chris Ware.
I do believe he love puzzles.
The contents page in most prose and graphic novels is perfunctory or a bit of a tease at best. Exceptions include philanthropist Henry Fielding’s riotously witty and iconoclastic tasters introducing episodes from his 18th Century novel ‘Tom Jones’. Here the contents last an entire five pages, breaking the book into a four-act play, each of whose scenes carries an individual title. In addition – for Hickman does nothing by halves – every attendant diagram, pictogram, letter, diary entry, transcript, history map or censored personnel file is also titled [in square brackets], except for those whose very titles are censored.
These interspersed discoveries are presented as if typed manually, and bear all the grained imperfections of having been photocopied badly or expeditiously.
The effect is to present you with a secret dossier whose component parts you will need to analyse for yourselves in conjunction with each other and the main, comics narrative in order to build up the bigger picture. And it is a much bigger picture of language and numbers, the language of numbers, of wheels and of systems, of deals and dynasties, of power, money and magic.
Like the contents of the dossier, the main narrative also flickers backwards and forwards in time, so you’ll need to mentally slot those sequences in too. Lastly, if you thought the cover credits were clever, wait until you read those at the back of the book, absolutely in tune with what comes before with its sentences hidden within sentences.
Sorry, where was I? Oh yes. This is brilliant.
For every transaction there is a price to be paid – a sacrifice to the great god Mammon – and most often it is in blood. The bankers just prefer it were ours.
“The first million dollars you make is self-financed. You earn it with your own blood. The cost is your health, your family, your friends.
“You pay, understand…
“The most common mistake is believing that you can accrue even more by continuing this behaviour. You cannot. If you’re going to earn more… if you’re going to earn real money – accumulate real power – then that is done on the backs of others. Call them workers, call them proles, even call them slaves. I do not care. Just know, it is they who you will sacrifice for gain.”
Don’t you love a little unexpected honesty?
Sometimes, however, as we shall see, the blood-letting is necessarily much closer to home.
The Caina Investment Bank was founded in 1857. In 1989 it merged with the Russian Kankrin Troika to form the Caina-Kankrin Investment Bank, the biggest in the world. But in between there have been fateful and sometimes fatal struggles for power within its rotating, four-pillar structure and the families – the Rothschilds, the Ackermans, the Dominics and the Bischoffs – who sat in its four chairs.
Then the Wheel would become broken.
It was broken when Wall Street crashed on Black Thursday morning, October 24th 1929. As America started haemorrhaging money, the man sat in the Stone Chair at the moment the music stopped started to haemorrhage blood.
Now the Wheel has been broken once more, for Daniel Rothschild – the managing partner in the Ascendant Seat – has been murdered. The remaining members of the Caina-Kankrin cabal have recalled Daniel’s twin sister Grigoria from exile in England in order to fill his position, so that the cycle can continue. But Grigoria did not leave voluntarily, as we shall see, and now that she’s back she has certain demands. She’s also brought with her the family familiar, a ghostly-white and unreadable woman whose eyes are hidden behind reflective sunglasses, and who speaks only in arcane symbols.
Into this dangerous, twilight world strays one Detective Theodore Dumas, restored from suspension after he shot dead an unarmed civilian man in the middle of the street because he saw something no one else could. Turns out there were eight and a half heads in the civilian’s freezer, with the next victim tied to his bed. He’s been restored to duty because Daniel Rothschild murder involved an impenetrable ritual. With his preternatural insight, what will Theo see now?
I’m thrilled to see Tomm Coker back. Hopefully you remember him from the likes of the equally umbral BLOOD + WATER and UNDYING LOVE VOL 1, and here his masterful eye for tight composition gives us an elaborately staged, cryptic crime scene with a timely message.
The very first panel in 1929 is set ominously under the shadow of a barrage balloon which – rightly or wrongly – I always associate with war. What’s bombing is the Stock Exchange. On the second page there’s an acute emphasis on the vertical, on the drop. First there’s the aerial shot of the Bank tower / spire, then there’s the blood dripping from the man in the Stone Chair going down.
One other free-fall aside, Coker controls all other expressions – just as Garland does the colours – with enormous discipline, lending the dialogue a weight and a power and a shadow, if you like, under which you are drawn to wonder what lurks: hidden motivations galore, and all sorts of nasties dressed up to the nines. Eresko’s one-on-one, close-up, unblinking eye contacts are terrifying.
Parenthetically, the dialogue is so well worded you can hear Viktor Eresko’s accent as you read this purely from the carefully controlled cadence of his words.
Everything in this comic is ominous – wait until you descend deep under the Berlin Wall! – but there’s a particularly impressive, deliciously shiver-inducing scene as Grigoria and her ever-attendant familiar, the impassive Abby, are driven back to New York, the jet-black clouds clawing across the blood-red sky like a shrouded spectre. Red is the only primary colour which Michael Garland uses, and he does so sparingly so it’s all the more startling.
Coker’s present-day Grigoria is elegant, commanding but where Coker excels himself is in Abigail, Abbrielle, Abby who assumes each era’s contemporary chic. She is insouciant, but surprisingly tactile at times, and I love the way she cocks her head occasionally like a bird of prey, curious to gauge someone else’s reaction to what has cropped up.
It’s an intelligent book, well researched in the schools of economics and confidently delivered when Hickman’s making it up. A lot of this is about truths and lies, truths within lies and vice-versa, including an entire website created to propagate one by using the other. Here’s the sort of thing that’s up for discussion:
“If you ask any competent linguist what’s the most spoken language on Earth, they will tell you – with some assurance – it is Mandarin, and they would be wrong.
“Since we first learned to grunt, man has possessed a universal language, and it remains a language everyone on the planet speaks.
“You see, Detective, numbers are primal. What makes them enduring – what gives this language its true power – is when a number is attached to an object.
“We use that union of number and object to count, and counting is how we measure accumulation. And what is accumulation? It is wealth. Now consider that we do the same thing with people…”
Love vol 4: The Dinosaur h/c (£15-99, Magnetic Press) by Frederic Brremaud & Federico Bertolucci.
Fourth wordless foray into the food chain that is our natural world, you can read our reviews of the previous three (TIGER, LION, FOX) in our enticingly titled LOVE: THE section. And it is very much the food chain being presented here as our constant companion in this ancient obstacle course – the Bambiraptor Feinbergi – attempts to duck and dive under cover, out of trouble, and off the metaphorical dinner plate.
The substantial cover is provided by a gigantic Isisaurus Colberti, one of those long-necked behemoths like the Brontosaurus, Brachiosaurus or Diplodocus. Hasn’t one of those recently been discredited? This one has a thicker, powerful, rubbery neck ribbed with muscles and we are reminded throughout that vegetarians aren’t necessarily pacifists. You don’t have to be a carnivore to be formidably enraged. Eggs are eggs, territory is territory, and self-defence can become exceedingly aggressive.
Not quite as aggressive as in Ricardo Delgado’s AGE OF REPTILES, to be sure, but I’m not going toe-to-toe with a Triceratops. AGE OF REPTILES is a silent series too. Dinosaurs didn’t have much to say for themselves, did they?
I only have one later image from the interior art – and that’s subaquatic – but I can promise you that there will be a Tyrannosaurus Rex or two.
It begins, however, in a hazy, diffused light, with a bee and a locust which also reminds us that insects are true survivors and that we are lucky to have them still with us or else in some circles pollination would be a thing of the past. Speaking of “things of the past” and “survivors”, I also spy a Solenodon on the very first page. You call tell that it’s ancient by its name. It sounds like it should be some imposing leviathan, but it isn’t. It’s one of Earth’s earliest mammals which exists to this day, so meriting its inclusion in dear David Attenborough’s television ark. And he was only allowed to select ten species.
It’s these little details which endear me to this edition and I’m endeared to them all. The thought behind the genesis of each LOVE: THE graphic novel shouldn’t be overlooked, however distractingly dramatic and spectacular the art. You are assured of spectacle each and every time, and especially on a day like today; because we haven’t woken up on any random morning.
Initially I was quite startled that the creators had decided to “do” dinosaurs because half of my brain appears inexplicably to consider them fantasy. And I’m no crazy-headed Creationist, let me tell you. I was once quite the dinosaur expert, having collected PG Tips’ excursion into the equivalent of cigarette cards, aged 5 or 6. I stuck them all semi-neatly into a much-treasured album and devoured all their details.
That love is rewarded and rekindled in the back by a more expansive closing gallery than usual: 22 pages of storyboards, painting and sketches, identifying each exotic creature including four different species / iterations of the cow-like lizard whose best-known example is the Triceratops.
Some of these paintings are rendered on coarse-grained canvas, which works wonders in adding a thick, pitted, leathery texture to their armoured hides, just like a rhinoceros’.
Conversely, Bertolucci’s less intense sketches in ink with wild washes allow the movement and musculature to shine through. There’s one other page in which an eye shines with intelligence, with spirit, with soul, just like every horse and cow that I’ve ever met.
Is it only me who finds the name ‘Bambiraptor’ oxymoronically funny?
Of all the cast here, he is imbued with a certain, slapstick, Disney anthropomorphism, especially when trampled underfoot by his hunger-frenzied friends.
I Thought You Hated Me (£7-50, Retrofit) by Marinaomi.
Certainly the cover doesn’t do it any sort of justice at all: it doesn’t welcome you in. It has none of the tenderness, balance and keenly judged space of the interior art. Instead we see a bitter and angrily resentful Mari – when she is neither within – in a sort of nicotine-perpetuated anger trap.
Please persevere long enough to look instead, for instead this is told with a charmingly direct, warts-and-all seeming simplicity, yet there are a variety of unexpected angles subtly deployed and underneath lies a truthful understanding, clearly conveyed, that within friendships much goes unsaid; that too few survive long enough for a conversational reflection on what went unsaid; that so many shared experiences may have meant different things to one friend than to the other; or maybe they did mean the same but you never knew; whereas other events might have had a profound effect upon one to which the other was oblivious so quite possibly the event never registered at all and was subsequently forgotten.
Each one of those scenarios ticks my own recognition boxes, as well as another which I’ll leave for my punchline.
So why was this friendship unlikely to last and why did Mari think that Mirabai hated her?
Well, the things we say when we are 9!
For a start, Mirabai was introduced to Mari by her already existing friend, Harmony.
“This is my new friend, Mirabai.
So there’s a territory claimed. Mari was never confident, but what little confidence she had was completely undermined by Mirabai constantly leading her on, then pulling the rug from under her. Cue Charles Schultz homage, ever so appropriately. You’ll see exactly why it’s spot-on when you read this yourself, but brilliantly there’s a break between how Schultz uses this throughout PEANUTS and when Marinaomi repeats it. There is… a progression.
Mirabai’s increasing artistic confidence is demonstrated by her diminishing competitiveness, feeling no need to accept compliments with triumphalism. Mari’s honest adulation is conveyed in her accepting Mirabai’s instructions without resentment. Mari even levels up when she suddenly finds a teen fashion style of her own and – on being photographed – seeing herself newly arrived as an adult. Okay, it’s a work in progress, but that has to tick recognition boxes too, yes?
So here’s one of those fresh angles I loved. Every single-page entry here is titled time- and site-specific: ‘Slumber party, 1985’ or ‘Sausalito Steps, 1987’. Suddenly it’s ‘Everywhere We Go, 1987’ and a spacious, single-panel page on which everyone is swooning, love hearts in their eyes, over Mirabai who is “oblivious” and Mari who is “jealous”. That’s it: nothing more complex than that, but “Everywhere We Go” says quite enough.
Mirabai, a year older, was always more precocious than Mari in art, poetry and experimentation, give or take drugs (I loved the reversal of a particular famous slogan with a couple of opposing TM-ed arguments for good measure). So when ‘Mirabai Moves To The Big City, 1989’ leaving Mari behind, their reunion isn’t so much a conversation as one long outburst of genuine enthusiasm on Mirabai’s part…
“…And my new friend Patrick told my new friend Ashu that my new friend…”
… but oblivious as always, this time as to its inevitable reception. I should reiterate that Mari’s reaction isn’t to glower; she simply hangs back, walking in Mirabai’s wake, looking forlornly to one side in isolated reflection. Am I really the only one here determined that Marinaomi has nailed it?
I’m going to leave you where I first thought to begin, at a ‘Late-night Diner, San Francisco, 1989’. Mirabai and “this one guy” have been talking animatedly all night while Mari sits silently, forgotten.
“Oh god, please don’t fall in love with Mirabai.
“Please, just this one guy,
“Just this one.”
Afterwards, outside, it’s Mari and the new guy.
“She’s really something, isn’t she?”
“Yeah, Mirabai’s the best!”
A love heart of genuine adoration accompanies Mari’s speech balloon.
You have pages and pages to go, and many in between to discover for yourselves, like the precise nature of which shared, early experience first changes the direction of their relationship from the careless bully and the enduringly bullied to something more mutual and respectful.
But what one doesn’t realise when one begins reading – because Mari didn’t realise this, either, until later – is that the title of this comic is a two-way street.
Goodnight Punpun vol 4 (£16-99, Viz) by Inio Asano…
Just when I thought Punpun might be in danger of getting his shit together…
As with previous volumes in Page 45’s Inio Asano section (reviewed), time has moved on once again since volume 3 and now Punpun is forlornly adrift in post-education ‘adult’ society. But whereas before at school he could mostly keep his head down, go unnoticed, and hide from his woes – primarily induced by the collection of weirdoes that comprise his family, plus girls he was obsessed with, oh and God who kept popping up unsolicited to have a word with him – now he’s starting to realise there’s just nowhere whatsoever left to hide from the big bad world…
Yes, it’s time for Punpun to meditate deeply in his own inimitable way upon thorny, pressing issues like gainful employment and somewhere to hang his hat. Ah, and the ever-elusive concept of sexual coupling, of course. All the sorts of day-to-day practicalities that Punpun is not particularly well equipped to deal with after his… strained upbringing, and perhaps if we’re being unkind, limited savvy. To start with at least… Yes, Punpun will surprise you – well he certainly did me – as after eventually realising that doing absolutely nothing isn’t a long term solution to his problems, he tentatively begins to apply himself to the rigours of everyday life. Punpun-stylee, of course!
But then we’ll see the return of certain characters who threaten to rock poor Punpun’s world (and hormones) even further off-kilter than before whereas, for a change, his family, or what’s left of it, doesn’t seem to be particularly impacting upon his shaky mental wellbeing. Even his Uncle, last seen losing the plot spectacularly in volume 3 seems to be holding it together. Well… in the manner of a kettle of water at 97.9 degrees C and rising rapidly, that is… I fear he’s only one misplaced letter away from going fully postal. What is it with that family?
And as for God, he’s seemingly gone on sabbatical. Even in Punpun’s hour of deep existential crisis / neediness (come on, you didn’t think he could get through a full volume without at least one near-total nuclear meltdown-sized wobbly, did you?), when he does his secret-codeword, ridiculous jig of a dance call, the resultant silence is absolutely deafening. Not that God isn’t listening, you understand, he just wants to fuck with Punpun a bit…
Inio Asano’s epic treatise on the socially dysfunctional struggling to survive amongst us continues. Some might say he has a keen eye for exposing the ever-present undercurrents and riptides that threaten to destabilise the most unsure of mental equilibrium at a moment’s notice for his readers’ pleasure. Others might just say he’s one cruel bastard.
Beowulf (Graphic Novel) by unknown & Gareth Hinds.
– customer Chris Gardiner.
Chris Gardiner is something of a Beowulf buff. He’s read the original, come across countless adaptations and this is one of his absolute favourites. Its impact on him was immediate and arresting.
The dragon he called “incandescent” (and it seriously is in a purplish, painted, black-and-white double-page spread that almost sets the paper on fire), and the brutish confrontation between Beowulf and an obsidian Grendel – all muscle, sinew, claws, teeth and wet, globular hair – is a shocking affair after such formal rhetoric. It’s bone-cracking, beam-breaking, bludgeoning stuff from a decade or so ago which would have superhero fans wetting themselves if they cared to look this way, as would BEOWULF by Garcia & Rubin published last month.
There are three such confrontations as the pages go suddenly silent letting the images roar and bellow for themselves, and my one reservation about this entire adaptation was whether that silence robbed us of some of the best language. “No,” replied Chris, “I can read the original for that.” He’s right, for Hinds has considered his medium – and timing – very carefully.
The ancient legend of Beowulf’s first known manuscript after centuries of oral tradition is dated around 1000 AD. In it King Hrothgar builds a banquet hall full of good cheer and revelry until it’s invaded by Grendel, a moor-dwelling man-beast capable of cleaving a man’s head from his body with naught but his black, bare hands. No matter how well armed are King Hrothgar’s men, by morning they are no more than bloody, mashed pulps and so for twelve long years the hall goes empty, the heroic King Hrothgar exiled from the heart of his own Danish dominion.
Then arrives Beowulf from a neighbouring territory, announcing his presence with due deference to the mighty Hrothgar but also a determination to rid him of this pestilence. For he has heard word of the accursed Grendel and, if he be so permitted, he would rout the abomination forever. Single-handedly, with neither arms nor armour, he prepares himself for the predatory Grendel to embark on his nocturnal assault. He is committed.
What may surprise those unaccustomed to the original (if you can call any one such) is that this is but the beginning, for Beowulf has an entire life of such challenges ahead of him. He has a kingdom of his own to rule, and threats there too which he must stave off. Even in old age, far past the peak of his physical prowess, a final battle awaits him.
One of the things I love most about Hinds is that he employs a completely different style for each book he works on. His riff on Homer’s THE ODYSSEY, for example, I described as “A summer sunshine joy, brought to watercolour light and rammed to its bucolic pens with so many of your favourite mythological beasts and best-avoided landmarks”. Similarly within this single book with its muted palette – emphasising firstly the centrality of wood to the Vikings’ everyday existence (see Neil Gaiman & Chris Riddell’s ODD AND THE FROST GIANTS) then the platinum hues of iron as the armour returns – there’s a startling demarcation between the sequences set in Beowulf’s youth elsewhere and his old age in his own kingdom.
Unlike Garcia & Rubin’s BEOWULF which we adore in its own right, you can buy this for your entire family so long as they’re happy with the obligatory severed appendages inherent to the tale.
Black Panther: Doom War s/c (£31-99, Marvel) by Jonathan Maberry, Reginald Hudlin & Will Conrad, Ken Lashley, Scott Eaton, Gianluca Gugliotta.
Expanded edition now collecting BLACK PANTHER (2009) #7-12, DOOMWAR #1-6, KLAWS OF THE PANTHER #1-4 and material from AGE OF HEROES #4 so Marvel can charge you more money. In 2011 of the six-issue mini-series only I wrote:
X-Men / Black Panther / Fantastic Four team-up which I initially dismissed as just another of the twenty new Marvel mini-series that month. I take a little of the blame for that but Marvel Central must take most for the aforementioned, not remotely exaggerated reason.
It’s good, and Eaton’s art has a delicate, European flavour to it. Storm’s hair is particularly lovely. Storm’s predicament is not.
Wakanda, you see – the never-conquered nation at the heart of Africa ruled by T’Challa – has been in receipt of a coup. Recorded delivery: they signed for it and everything.
A revolution for the people by the people: that’s how they’re promoting it to the outside world. T’Challa’s bride, Wakanda’s deposed queen and astonishing X-Man Storm, is on show-trial for her life. She’s convicted as a western poison. Let’s forget the fact that she’s African, and that the real power behind the coup is Doctor Victor Von Doom Esq., ruler of Latveria (black population nil). I wonder what he wants out of it? Can you spell “Vibranium”?
Maberry does a ridiculously good job of emphasising the heroes’ helplessness. T’Challa and the new Black Panther are stranded on the outside, desperately seeking the succour of a mutant strike force whose nation Utopia is so new and therefore fragile that they daren’t be seen to act like aggressors by illegally invading a foreign country. That’s best left to older nations like America and Britain. In any case, as I say, Wakanda has never been successfully invaded. That much was made abundantly, wittily and somewhat satisfyingly clear at the beginning of Reginald Hudlin’s first run (BLACK PANTHER: WHO IS THE BLACK PANTHER?), and is done so again. Storm, who was specifically on trial for attacking Wakandans, is forced by Doom to pick the Vibranium vault locks under Doom’s far from idle threat of slaughtering Wakandans, and Wakandan protestors are given no legitimacy because the new regime will not send in their tanks to suppress them.
Their names are taken, obviously, for when the protests subside.
The first chapter’s last three pages displayed note-perfect timing from both writer and artist, utilising the one way possible to turn the tide in attempting to invade an unassailable country.
Arrived, Online & Ready To Buy!
Reviews already up if they’re new formats of previous graphic novels. The best of the rest will be reviewed next week while others will retain their Diamond previews as reviews.
Black Dog: The Dreams Of Paul Nash – Original LICAF Signed & Sketched In Ultra-Limited Edition Softcover (£100-00, Dark Horse) by Dave McKean
Ohhhh, yeah we found 9 more copies AND THEY’RE ALL SKETCHED IN! AVAILABLE NOWHERE ELSE IN THE WORLD!
Junji Ito’s Dissolving Classroom (£9-99, Vertical, Terminally Ungrateful Edition) by Junji Ito
Wind In The Willows h/c (£22-99, IDW) by Kenneth Grahame & illustrated by David Petersen
This Is Not My Hat s/c (£6-99, Walker Books) by Jon Klassen
Snails (£1-25) by Jack Brougham
The Librarian (£4-99) by Jack Brougham
The Fourth Power h/c (£26-99, Humanoids) by Juan Gimenez
You Might Be An Artist If… h/c (£17-99, Top Shelf) by Lauren Purje
Haddon Hall: When David Invented Bowie h/c (£14-99, SelfMadeHero) by Nejib
Citizen Jack vol 1 s/c (£13-99, Image) by Sam Humphries & Tommy Patterson
Doctor Who: The Twelfth Doctor vol 4: The School Of Death (UK Edition) s/c (£10-99, Titan) by Robbie Morrison & Rachael Stott, Simon Fraser
Regular Show vol 2 (UK Edition) s/c (£10-99, Titan) by various
Regular Show: Hydration s/c (£9-99, Titan) by Rachel Connor & Tessa Stone
Steven Universe vol 2 (UK Edition) s/c (£10-99, Titan) by various
One-Punch Man vol 10 (£6-99, Viz) by One & Yusuke Murata
Batman: Detective Comics vol 1: Rise Of The Batmen s/c (Rebirth) (£14-99, DC) by James Tynion IV & Eddy Barrows, various
Harley Quinn And Her Gang Of Harleys s/c (£14-99, DC) by Jimmy Palmiotti, Frank Tieri & Mauricet, various
Bravest Warriors vol 4 s/c (£10-99, Kaboom) by various
Captain Marvel vol 2: Civil War II s/c (£14-99, Marvel) by Ruth Gage, Christos Gage & Kris Anka, Marco Failla, Thorny Silas
Civil War II (UK Edition) s/c (£16-99, Marvel) by Brian Michael Bendis & David Marquez, Sean Izaakse, Andrea Sorrentino, Olivier Coipel
Punisher Max Complete Collection vol 5 s/c (£35-99, Marvel) by various
Wolverine: Old Man Logan h/c (£31-99, Marvel) by Mark Millar & Steve McNiven
ITEM! Phew! The comicbook adaptation of Neil Gaiman’s AMERICAN GODS by P. Craig Russell & Scott Hampton is now going to be available in the UK! That’s saved us all 27 months of cultural and financial frustration.
Yes, it’s going to be 27 issues long! Please get your pre-orders ASAP by clicking on the link above and ordering online via our website or by phoning 0115 9508045 or emailing email@example.com to add the title to your Standing Orders.
But now The Lakes International Comic Art Festival comes to Page 45!
Oh how proud we are to present these glowing red banners on our shop floor!
Thankfully Jonathan hung them, because I get vertigo on the bathroom scales.
ITEM! Page 45 has found the last copies 9 of the original, ultra-rare, original LICAF edition of Dave McKean’s BLACK DOG: THE DREAMS OF PAUL NASH with its dust-jacket and everything. Not only that, but they have been sketched in by Dave McKean himself.
All proceeds go to The Lakes International Comic Art Festival in order to fund future events.
We take not one single penny, except from you, then pass them all straight onto LICAF. Hooray!