I started to holler

For the record, I’m fully aware that WHTB is utter cack. Rarely updated, thin on content and wheezing under the weight of poor grammar and awkward sentences, it’s a poor excuse for a blog. Thankfully I only have a handful of readers, who are too thoughtfully decent to spray these pages with comments detailing the many faults of these rather-too-idle musings, but apologies to all of you for dithering.

Right.

Anyway.

Since a couple of years have elapsed since my last visit to Liverpool’s quarterly comic fair, I decided to rejoice in the splendour of payday and head down. After partaking in mildly embarrassing conversation in the Marriott hotel (“Hallo, I believe there is a comic fair in here today?” “No, there isn’t.”), I managed to establish that the Liner hotel was, in fact, the correct location of the event, and sheepishly trundled off in that direction.

Comic fairs are an uncomfortable business. Sparse attendance only serves to heighten the embarrassment all concerned, and unless you’re a huge fan of widely-available back issues of mainstream superhero comics, you’re likely to come away disappointed. WHTB feels especially for a certain type of vendor whose stall attracts no attention whatsoever. Perhaps inevitably, these lost souls always seem to be accompanied by their disinterested spouses. Disconsolate yet resigned, the vendor sits wth arms folded, in total silence, whilst their other half’s glance darts around the room; seething resentment building towards these uncharitable nerds who will not approach their stall. “You must have the wrong stuff. These people aren’t interested,” s/he will occasionally remark, visibly fuming that a Saturday afternoon has been wasted in the presence of middle-aged singletons and sweaty, acne-plagued 13 year-olds. The vendor nods silently, and my heart breaks every time.

It’s not superhero comics that I’m after, in any case. My interest in the market-dominating titans of Marvel and DC has wavered, slowly evaporating into the vaguest of lingering affections. This manifests itself these days in cinema trips, to nostalgically partake in the latest big-budget powers’n’spandex action-fest, and criticising American nerd-com The Big Bang Theory for getting minor details wrong (at times I can’t help but feel I identify with the show’s protagonists for the wrong reasons).

The reason for my trip, as per usual, is to locate old indie comics. There are still gaps in my collection (if I can use such a horrible word – hack! Spit!) of Peter Bagge’s phenomenal Hate and Neat Stuff comics, and frankly I’d like to fill them. Whilst his oevre is often lumped in with fellow doyens of the Fantagraphics publishing stable such as Black Hole creator Charles Burns or Daniel Clowes of Eightball (and specifically Ghost World) fame, Bagge’s artwork is quite unlike his peers’. Filled with frantic, meticulously-drawn characters, it lurches from merciless all-targetting satire to warped slapstick to utterly shameless gross-outery. It’s well worth checking out. Naturally, good fucking luck finding any of it at a comic fair.

Peter Bagge's Hate comic: Buddy Bradley gets het up

Instead I wander from table to table, ignoring the innumerate boxes of Superman, X-Men and the rest to flick through carelessly-laid-out ‘INDIES’ sections, and presumably find nothing as per usual. My queries are most often met with a forehead-slap and an exclaimed “Fack me, mate, I’ve got thaaaaaaaaahhh-sands a’them at ‘ome!” before a flyer with an email address is thrust into my hand, thereby missing the point that I’m attempting to buy things here so I don’t have to bother to do so on the internet. Otherwise it’s a quizzical look along with a “What?” Either way, I move along.

Eventually, and just as I’m about to give up hope and head back home, my search is successful: one unmarked box reveals a veritable treasure chest of mid-to-late 80s and early 90s Fantagraphics anthology comics. It’s not strictly what I’m after, but I trust Fantagraphics enough to feel assured that this stuff is going to be gold. Jeremey Eaton’s A Sleepy Head Tale, Glenn Head’s Avenue D, James Sturm’s Check-Up and a whole four issues of Centrifugal Bumble-Puppy (edited by sterling comic-journalist Joe Sacco) are my glorious prize, and the vendor is so delighted to get rid of them that he only charges me £20 for the pile. Not bad at all; ebay would’ve set me back a lot more.

First issue of Centrifugal Bumble-Puppy, edited by Joe Sacco

Gleefully clutching my prize, I reflect on the afternoon. Not especially dismal; it could have been worse. And at least I can view fanboy markets with a slight sense of detachment these days - comic fairs are essentially where the childish glee inherent in superheroism is utterly wiped out by the snobbishness of the collector’s market. I’ve left the world of caped crusaders behind, and this afternoon has largely served as a reminder of why I was so glad to do so.

Seriously, comic fairs fucking suck.