I find it disgusting enough when Labour use the 'wasted vote' argument against anyone planning to do other than support the Red Tories/Blue Tories Punch & Judy show, what with Labour having themselves been a fringe party not so very long ago. But for the Lib Dems to start parroting it against voting for anyone smaller than themselves is just staggering. Between this and Nick Klegg, sorry, Clegg buying into the public sector cuts bidding war rather than asking the questions so many people now want asked about when the bankers will be giving our bloody money back, I'm increasingly wondering whether to bother voting Lib Dem next General Election after all. Except under Wee Charlie Kennedy (please come back, Charlie) it's seldom been so much that I actually like their policies as a case of "when faced with a choice of evils, I pick the one I've not tried yet" (good old Mae West). The more indistinguishable they become from the other two (still this obsession with chasing the centre ground, rather than offering voters anything like a real choice), the less that justification holds. Obviously at national level the Green manifesto normally has more holes than a fair-trade organic basket, but I'm still tempted to vote for them now out of sheer spite.

So we're sending two Nazis to Europe. On the plus side, at least the christians don't have any seats - though aren't there some still to declare? That would put the sour cherry on the carrot cake and no mistake. And I see this news just after reading the Captain Britain and MI13 annual. This being the best new superhero comic in years, one which took a character even Alan Moore couldn't make sing, and made him into the national icon he always should have been, our own Captain America as opposed to a cheap knock-off. The series hit around the same time as Garth Ennis' Dan Dare reboot, and they shared an attempt to build a sense of a British patriotism which was strong and unashamed, but which gave no quarter to the racist scum who profane the flag and the history they so tattily invoke. And the annual? Well, that's the first issue to come out since the news that Captain Britain and MI13 is cancelled. There's just not enough of a market for it. And as above, so below. It's not that I feel any shame over how this will make us look in Europe's eyes, you understand - enough other countries are sending their own fascists, and as per last century, I'm confident that ours are hardly the biggest threat of the bunch. Besides which, the European Parliament is a bad joke in the first place. I'm more embarrassed over how this makes us look to ourselves, how much it exacerbates the national mood of bemused decline. Hopefully, it'll at least be enough of a wake-up call to improve matters, but it could as easily be another step down that sorry road. In the meantime, yesterday's jokes about "ask David to bring The Final Solution" (which worked better verbally, italics and capitals being silent) and the unicorn lynching seem slightly less amusing.

Othergates:
I don't normally mind waits at the doctor's; in accord with Sarll's First Rule, I always have plenty to read about my person. Except my surgery has now installed a TV broadcasting inane health programming, noisily. Desist!
Unusually old-school Stay Beautiful this weekend, both in terms of those attending, and in not having a live act. "This is how we used to do it in the olden days!", I tell bemused youngsters for whom the night has only ever been at the Purple Turtle. The playlist is less old-school, which is a shame as such a direction might have saved me from accidentally dancing to La Roux.
Two Grant Morrison comics out last week, and while Batman & Robin was a great, straightforward superhero story with art by the ever-impressive Frank Quitely, it wasn't a patch on the glorious, tragic, yearning final issue of Seaguy's second act. Guess which one sells about ten times as much as the other?

In spite of X2 being my favourite superhero film ever, I had an utter absence of plans to go see X-Men Origins: Wolverine - but when a friend invites you along for free, to a cinema that's a pleasant walk away on a nice evening...well, that's a different matter, isn't it? Plus, I was in a position to empathise, given I am currently in the midst of a procedure to bond metal to my skeleton (I have a temporary filling) performed by someone I don't entirely trust (a dentist) and which is likely to affect my memory (she also prescribed me some antibiotics on which I can't drink). And...it's OK. If you want a big dumb action film, or a film with naked Hugh Jackman scenes, I can wholeheartedly recommend it. ( spoilers )
On the way back, I realised that while I'd walked that route home dozens of times, I wasn't sure I'd ever done it sober. And on my MP3 player I was listening to two new loads, added before the antibiotics were prescribed, but which I realised were both by straight edge artists - The Streets' new stuff, and The Melting Ice Caps. Which, sat by the war memorial listening to 'A Good Night', helped reassure me that this week off liquor isn't a chore, it's a novelty. Because frankly, I am better than Duck Phillips.

I read Alfred Bester's Tiger, Tiger* years ago, and didn't really appreciate it; I suspect I may have been too young. Certainly it would have been before my Babylon 5 phase, so while I appreciated that it was the source of the name for Walter Koenig's sinister psychic, I didn't really grasp *why*. Now I'm finally reading The Demolished Man, in which one man attempts to get away with murder in a world where telepaths are a fact of life, and it makes perfect sense. The whole Babylon 5 treatment of psychics, from the oppressive Psi Corps in which they're all obliged to be members, to their interactions with each other and the rest of humanity - it all comes from here. In terms of predicting the future, well, this does so a lot less well than most of its fellows in the (excellent) Masterworks series. But as an evocation of paranoia, and of what telepathy might feel like both for the gifted and the blind, it's astonishing - and the increasingly outlandish stratagems by a killer and a detective who both know the truth, but can't yet act on it, remind me of nothing so much as Death Note. Less sexually charged, though, in spite of one key scene being set at an orgy.
I think I may have been driven to investigate by Michael Chabon mentioning that Howard Chaykin adapted The Demolished Man in his introduction to Chaykin's own American Flagg!. Which, again, I should really have investigated sooner. Deranged pulp futurology, it's the closest I've ever seen an American come to the early days 2000AD, except unlike 2000AD back then, the 'thrill power' here encompasses sex as well as violence, nihilism and insane technology. Something 2000AD has picked up on since, of course - even down to Nikolai Dante appropriating Reuben Flagg's 'Bojemoi!'

*So my father's edition called it, but the battle of the titles seems, in the intervening years, to have been comprehensively decided in favour of its alternative, The Stars My Destination.

It's remarkably civilised of ITV to put all their halfway-watchable shows in the same 90 minute block. Secret Diary of a Call Girl was always borderline, and now they're deviating from the book even more, not just normalising Belle but embroiling her in lamely generic plots about proteges and politicians - plus, the director seems increasingly inept at hiding the use of body doubles. Nonetheless, it's better than anything else ITV squeeze out, or would be if tomorrow it weren't followed by the debut of No Heroics. I haven't seen it yet, but it stars Nathan Barley and James Lance and is set in a pub for off-duty superheroes where the drinks include V For Vodka and Shazamstell, and thus even with ITV's reverse Midas touch in the equation, it basically can't fail. Then after that, Entourage, which is still ludicrous fluff, and still utterly wonderful. No need to check the rest of the schedules! And no need to bother with ITV1 at all, thank heavens.

How can people say there are no good band names left in a world with Adebisi Shank? If you don't agree, you presumably haven't seen Oz, and if you haven't seen Oz, that's between you and your conscience.

As much as I love Saint Etienne, neither of the times I've seen them before convinced me. But context counts for a lot; they're the sound of London on a good day, of the retro-futuristic spirit that gave the city things like the South Bank. So walking down from Bloomsbury and through the Thames Festival, with its gay Aztecs and giant butterflies and Lithuanian folk-dancers, and the show being in the Queen Elizabeth Hall (where Sarah incites quite the most polite insurrection I've ever seen, encouraging dancing in the aisles)...it helps them make sense live like they do on record. And well done Heavenly for managing to turn the foyer into a plausibly clubby space, too.
It was a strange weekend; even more than usual I was beset by the mutterings of whichever church father it was who lamented "Oh, that we had spent but one day in this world thoroughly well." Not that I think his idea of time well spent would have much in common with mine, but that line haunts me nonetheless. And this in spite of participating in a sitcom read-through accompanied by experimental booze science, getting some sewing done which I'd been putting off for months, a wonderful birthday dinner for a dear friend on Saturday...not such a wasted weekend as all that, but at my back I always hear, &c. There's a thought - the Marvell expert was out on Saturday, maybe it was his fault.
Oh, and sun dogs! Perfect examples, on the very day when I'd been reading the chapter of The Cloud-Spotter's Guide about them. While admiring which I was accosted by two antipodeans who wanted to borrow my mobile in exactly the sort of scenario which could have been a scam - but wasn't, thus restoring some fragment of my faith in humanity.

Speaking of faith in humanity - I enjoyed John Scalzi's future war novel Old Man's War, but thus far I like the sequel The Ghost Brigades even better. Partly this is because it answers some niggling questions I had about the setting - questions which weren't explicitly set up as mysteries and could simply have been inconsistencies. But more than that for its sheer ruthlessness, its recognition that when faced with a populous and implacable galaxy, humanity's greatest resource is that we are utter bastards. Of course, this is also why in reality, and even in my very favourite fiction, I would much rather we were just used as attack dogs in a galactic civilisation run by something halfway civilised, because the idea of trusting us to run the show is terrifying. But for the odd pulp thrill, Humans Versus The Galaxy has its charms.
(You might not expect a segue from that to the Lib Dem conference. But when Nick Clegg, name notwithstanding, says "most people, most of the time, will do the right thing"...I wonder whether he's grown up with the same human race I have, and even more than with his plans for tax cuts, I fear that his party is just too far away from anything I believe nowadays for me to vote for them in good conscience. On the other hand, he's dead right about the zombies and the Andrex puppy)

Spent the Bank Holiday weekend strung out along the 253 route as was - well, with one brief jaunt up to the asylum, but other than that - Bethnal Green, Clapton, Seven Sisters Road, Camden. All very jolly but I was especially glad to have Black Plastic back, rocking and packed. Visually, the erstwhile Pleasure Unit is somewhat less of a dive than previously, although they seriously need to sort out the smell. If only people could try to burn it off, it might help - particularly if the burning items were also themselves fragranced, perhaps?
And I've finished London - City of Disappearances. Which feels strange - it's such a capacious book, so it feels a little like finishing an encyclopaedia, or the dictionary. Appropriate, I suppose, given I am about to take a little break from London - though having also just finished Wodehouse's last novel, Aunts Aren't Gentlemen, I'm wary of expecting too much calm and restoration from my West Country retreat.

Frustrating though it is that HBO's post-western epic Deadwood never got a proper resolution, in some ways it works out rather well. ( oblique spoilers )
And that, right there, is the birth of America, isn't it? Which is what the series was always about. Hell, you could argue HBO did give us the sequel; once we've seen how the last great attempt at founding a new society was finally bought and buried, all we need to do is spin forward 130 years to watch The Wire and see the long, drawn-out death throes implicit in that stymied birth.
(I got the impression ahead of time that Deadwood's third season was not so well-regarded as the rest; having watched it, I'm at a loss as to why that might be, and of course now I'm not scared of their spoilers, those negative reviews at which I could barely glanced have learned the ways of church mice. Perhaps it was the players, the fire-engine, the loosely-attached subplots of no immediately obvious relevance to the show's main thrust. I rather liked them, myself - they made it the story of a community, not just of the community's leaders)
And with that finished, I'm into a rather different TV proposition: Justice League Unlimited. I love that popular culture has got to the point where Aztek and Alan Moore stories are considered appropriate fodder for children's television.

Hamfatter - yes, I know they went on Dragon's Den to get funding, but they're not that bad, are they? Not great, but in the pop-bands-with-guitars field, one of the less offensive examples.

Am not convinced by the latest rejig of 2000AD's monthly sibling, the Megazine. Packaging it with a slim reprint edition is not an inherently bad idea - but the price has gone up from £2.99 to £4.99, and next week's accompanying reprint is Snow/Tiger, a perfectly good strip but also a very recent one which, like many readers, I already own in the weeklies. And while it's good, I'm not sure it's so good that I can use a surplus copy for comics evangelism, y'know?

That was a good week off capped by a great weekend; starting with Pimm's and Peep Show, moving on via Greenwich and Ealing, then lounging around in the local park yesterday. We even got to contribute some local colour to a hip hop video, sitting around on the grass looking middle class with a picnic hamper and plenty of wine while the chap behind us lamented the gun culture on London's streets. The setting seemed slightly incongruous, but his lyrics were fairly conscious so I can only surmise that it was deliberate, pointing out to the kids on Green Lanes that rather than shooting each other, they could just go and sit on a tree stump like he was. Good luck to him.

I'm not quite prepared to go with the 'best superhero film ever' plaudits - for me Burton's two Batman films and Singer's two X-Mens are still to beat - but yes, Iron Man is extremely good. Given this is Marvel's first in-house production, there was a lot riding on it. Obviously, if comics writers are being asked to the set, consulted on the script, bringing the benefit of their experience then the end product is more likely to appeal to people like me than it is when the Hollywood studios start fiddling. But that's not going to do us a lot of good in the long run if the general public stays away. Fortunately, Iron Man appears to be making obscene amounts of money - which not only means that Marvel are likely to continue with this strategy, but that a similar fidelity is likely to roll out across other comics films. And I don't mean fidelity in the unthinking 'no organic webshooters' sense - but fidelity in spirit, not making changes for change's sake. ( spoilers )

On my wanderings last week, I managed to fill a few gaps in my comics collection - those last elusive issues of Warren Ellis' Excalibur among them - but I think my favourite finds were a few Dreaming issues. The Dreaming is widely, and for the most part rightly, remembered as a bit of an atrocity - the post-Gaiman Sandman spin-off which flailed around for a while before being turned into the ultimate unintentional Vertigo self-parody by execrable goth Caitlin Kiernan. But before it lost sight of its anthology remit, they got a few stories from better writers, among them Peter Hogan. Peter Hogan is one of those mid-period 2000AD writers whose American career never quite took off - John Smith is the other great example. I'm not going to claim him as a great writer, at least not on this evidence; his stories are a little too pat for that. But they also show great charm, a deft wit, and a better grasp of the unique atmosphere Gaiman conjured for The Sandman than anyone else who's played with those toys. At the very least Hogan should have had a career as a sort of lieutenant to Gaiman, the Millar (as was) or Waid to Gaiman's Morrison.

"I don't want to live in a country that emasculates the BBC," says Stephen Fry. One of England's great treasures defending another; if only there were some reference to or endorsement from Alan Moore it would be three for three.

Anybody else coming to see The Indelicates launch one of the albums of the year at Madame Jo Jo's tonight?

An unknown unknown: I was unaware that I did not know whether there are moles in Ireland. Apparently there are not. Whereas the snakes so famously driven out by St Guinness are not absent as such, only "poorly represented".

Since the century turned and everything started going madder, I've often said that there's no such thing as contemporary fiction anymore - you're either writing SF or historical. That Joe Stretch novel about which I was enthusing turned out to be both. Like Atomized, it had a framing narration from the future - but that future stemmed directly and divergently from the book's 'present', and that present must have been the past because the characters kept smoking in bars and cafes. Speaking of which, 2000AD is currently running a Savage strip in which Poptimism's venue, The Cross Kings, is one of the key locations. An alternate Cross Kings in an alternate London, one under neo-Stalinist occupation - but for all the brutalities of life under the Volgan jackboot, there are ashtrays on the pub tables.
In other science fiction news: wasn't 'The Fires of Pompeii' splendid? Having found Tate's performance one of the less dreadful aspects of 'Partners in Crime', here she was definitely the weak link. Not enough to ruin the episode by any means, but I did wish for Martha.

I suppose it was inevitable that should the Guardian publish an eminently sensible article questioning the vogue for China among galleries, and the dubious tone of some of the accompanying commentary, in light of recent reminders of the Chinese regime's failings, then the comments would instantly decline into name-calling and facile moral equivalence.

Finished The Wire last night. Not really ready to talk about it; what is there to say? It is what it is. Maybe in five, ten years - if we last that long - some kids who grew up on it will make something that compares. For now and for myself, I can only say that I'm glad I never got round to getting any LJ icons from it; right now I wouldn't want to identify as anyone in there.

Jason Webley fans! Are people planning to see him at Favela Chic in Shoreditch this Sunday, at the Green Note in Camden on Wednesday, or both? Not-yet-Jason-Webley-fans! Fancy seeing the best solo performer since Hawksley Workman, a sort of Tom Waits with an accordion and a closer connection to the human race?

Arguing with 9/11 conspiracy theorists is a self-defeating endeavour; if you refuse to accept what they see as the self-evident truth that an American cabal destroyed the World Trade Centre, then you're obviously part of the conspiracy yourself. The BBC recently showed a documentary debunking the lunacy; inevitably, this has now seen them named as another conspirator*. Not yet realising that the only sane response is to stick your fingers in your ears and start singing 'La La La La I Can't Hear You', the BBC has now defended itself. One item of the defence: "We no longer have the original tapes of our 9/11 coverage (for reasons of cock-up, not conspiracy)."
If you look at the comments on that piece, you'll get a fairly good impression of the sort of frothing insanity which characterises the conspiracy mob; you'll also note that not one of them finds this excuse remotely plausible.
Which means that they don't know anything of the history of how much classic BBC programming is missing from the archives.
Which means that not one of them can be a fan either of Peter Cook or Doctor Who.
Which is yet further proof of their general failure as human beings.

The 30th anniversary prog of 2000AD came out today. It's an incredible achievement, but they've taken the nostalgic side of this too far by including an utterly rubbish prequel to dinosaur-farming romp Flesh - and the whole thing would have been so much more resonant if Judge Dredd: Origins hadn't gone MIA mid-story.

The flu epidemic which followed the Great War killed something like 5% of the world's population - but without being followed by social breakdown or general chaos. So if bird flu gets its socks on, and accomplishes something similar - well, that's got to do a lot of good for the human carbon footprint, hasn't it? Which must be vastly preferable to the likely apocalyptic consequences of climate change. Help Us, H5N1 - You're Our Only Hope.

Have just been tooling around Hell as Beta Ray Bill, nicking enormous flaming swords off giant demons and using them to do over their mates. This entirely made up for the upsetting stuff with the clowns and the dodgems earlier, and has left me in an extremely good mood.

*At the last count the number of conspirators required would practically put them in the majority across the US and UK; added to the normal psychological flaws of the conspiracy obsessive, that desperate, childish need to believe that *someone* is in control of the world, the 9/11 mob must now be feeling terribly left out.