Here comes the past #4: I hate you, Captain Sunshine

Last week I bought a comic that I hate so much it makes me want to cry.

It's not a modern comic, and this is none of your modern hate, built on irony or nostalgia or 21st-century sensibilities. This is primal loathing – hatred of this comic is written deep in my comic-loving DNA.

I hate this comic so much, it makes me sick to look at it. I hate it so much, it made me wary of all locally produced comics in New Zealand for years, until Horrocks, Langridge and Wills came along. I hate it so much, I actually repressed the memory of its existence for almost three decades.

I hate you so much, The Adventures Of Captain Sunshine.

Which is a shame, because it really isn't as bad as that loathing suggests, and the thing I hate most about it also has a spectacular pay-off.

I've talked about this comic before. It's nothing to do with the Venture Bros character. It's a New Zealand comic published in 1979, designed to promote a wristwatch sundial, an idea that is exactly as stupid as it sounds. It was written by Peter Farrell, Roy Middleton, Reuben Sandler, and Colin Wilson. Wilson also did the art for the comic, and the talent that would take him on to greater heights in Europe is still there, if a little clumsy.

It's about some space arsehole who comes to earth to beat up men with moustaches and lecture the rest of us about the harm we're doing to Mother Earth. I think. I never really could follow it.

There were tens of thousands of these comics published, and a promised second issue never happened, with stories of a warehouse full of Captain Sunshine crap persisting for years. There were still copies of Captain Sunshine spread all over the country, choking bookshop shelves, and eventually flooding out onto the second hand market.

I hated, hated, hated Captain Sunshine when I was a kid. My first distinct comic memory is hating it. I hated the boring plot, and the clumsy dialogue, and the stupid characters and the way it was everywhere and I never wanted it, and I hated how cheap it looked with its tatty paper cover, compared to the glossy things on the front of American comics. (2000ad and other British weeklies always overcome the bog-paper cover limitations with some astonishingly strong cover design work, which Sunshine certainly didn't have.)

I despised Captain Sunshine so much, that I completely blocked it out of my mind, and forgot it even existed for a good few decades, until I saw some art from it at an exhibition in Wellington nearly three years ago, and suddenly remembered how much I hated it.

Even though I am a massive fan of Colin Wilson's artwork, and am always pleased to see it pop up again, I saw his art for the first couple of pages of Captain Sunshine, and the memory was so bad, I could remember drinking horrible orange cordial at my auntie and uncle's place, one sunny morning in 1980.

It was properly stunning, and my surprise at this long-repressed memory almost overcame the other feeling I had – an intense loathing for this comic, that still makes me mad today.

I kept seeing it for sale on the internet, with copies usually changing hands for about ten bucks. But I was never tempted, until I saw it in a second hand bookshop in Auckland's beautiful Onehunga last Saturday, on sale for two dollars. Even though it made me want to spit when I picked it up, I had to see if I really did still hate it that much, and I had to see what was so bad about the whole thing. Look at it with the modern eye.

And the first answer was yes – I really do still hate it that much. I loathe the main character, the comic's pissy portentousness and the flat, dead dialogue. I hate the way one of the main secondary characters looks a lot like one of the Guardians of the Universe from Green Lantern, and I always fucking hated the Guardians of the Universe. I hate it when Captain Sunshine yells out 'LET'S DO IT THEN!' really loud when they come up with a plan. I hate the pretentious-as-fuck History Of The Universe section in the first two pages, because it's the same pretentious-as-fuck History of the Universe section that always showed up in seventies sci-fi comics.

But most of all, I hate the colouring. Oh, I hate it so damn much.

No wonder I associate this comic with toxic orange cordial, because it looks like they used orange cordial to colour this thing. Either that, or they used some high-quality felt-tip pens to fill in-between the lines.

It's splotchy as hell, and all faded oranges and yellows and reds. Captain Sunshine's uniform is, notably, just a sea of yellow and orange. It makes it one of the most repellent comics I've ever read.

They were going for some kind of groovy seventies effect, as if the world within the comic was being lit by lava lamps. But it's all washed out and wimpy, and besides, lava lamps make me feel sick too.

The colours do get better as it gets going, becoming clearer and far more palatable, but the first half dozen pages are just nasty.

But what I didn't remember about the comic until I actually read the damn thing again was that all this dusty colouring actually pays off, when the title character jumps into the sea to talk to some whales, and there is a two-page spread of vivid blues that suddenly bring some life to these pages:

It's the one moment of genuine artistic merit in this wretched comic, some real serenity in the cheap and clumsy chaos.

And I also can't fault the comic for its ambitions- there is a blatant environmental message in this 1970s comic. It's not much more than 'SAVE THE WHALES', but it's so earnest and awkward that it's actually kinda charming. And you can't really blame the creators for attempting to putting something with a message into a tie-in comic for an idiotic wristwatch.

And I do appreciate Wilson's art in the comic, even though it's not much, and it's far from his best. Moebius comics always freaked me out a little, but I somehow found Moebius followers even weirder, and this is about as far out as early Wilson gets.

But. I. Still. Hate. It.

I once hated it partly because it was everywhere and his easy availability offended my adolescent sensibilities, when I was going crazy trying to find issues of more important comics like Scream and Sergent Rock. It's a comic I always associated with shitty bookshops in shitty holiday towns. Sometimes, all I wanted was a Superman, and all they would have is Captain bloody Sunshine.

I'm over that now, because it's a proper slice of history, and it is a bit rarer, and my views on NZ comics are a lot more mature.

But every time I glance at the cover of The Adventures of Captain Sunshine, I feel a bit sick and angry and I hate it so much I want to cry. I'm fairly astonished that a few flimsy paper of cheap newsprint can still have that kind of an effect on me, but that doesn't actually make me feel any better, so I'm gonna go hide that comic in the bottom of a box somewhere, and get it out of my sight for a few more years.

He's came to save us all, but Captain Sunshine can fuck right off.

- Originally published March 23, 2013
I found my copy of this the other day while packing up, and I still fucking hate you, Captain Sunshine.

Here comes the past #3: Wrestling with the superstars

Teenage obsessions burn so brightly and usually fade away just as fast, but they can leave behind a lingering fondness that does no real harm. I don't really love old X-men comics and zombie movies as much as I did when I was 13, but I still love them all the same.

And I still have an absolute loyalty to the late 80s WWF wrestling that will never, ever die.

There had always been wrestling on the TV around here. In the days of two channels in New Zealand, 'On The Mat' was huge for a decade, bringing in overseas stars for bouts with local talent. But that was squeezed out in the mid 80s when they couldn't get international wrestlers to come over to the arse end of the world anymore, and there wasn't any wrestling for a while. 

The growth of the WWF and the way it gobbled up all the regional circuits was a large reason for New Zealand promoters failing to secure that overseas talent. And then they started showing WWF Superstars of Wrestling on TV2 and fucking everyone was into it.

My mates were into it, my sisters were into it, my parents were into it. It was 1988 and that was a prime time for the glorious absurdity of wrestling, and the histrionic slugfests made the whole world a little less drab, and there's nothing wrong with that.

The Superstars show was almost entirely full of the big names beating the living crap out of the poor jobbers, and all the big events took a long time to show up at the local video store. If you were lucky, someone might have a sixth generation video tape copy of the early Survivor Series that you could borrow, but most of us had to wait for Wrestlemania IV to show up on the shelves at Video Ezy (in a two-tape set, because video tapes could only hold so much power).

And fuck, it was fun. Moments like Demolition fighting each other at the start of the 1990 Royal Rumble (and then taking on the big man Andre) -

- or the Ultimate Warrior absolutely laying out the honkey Tonk Man and seizing the Intercontinental Championship belt in 30 seconds -

- or the Rockers showing up and blowing everybody's minds. 

I never cared much about the big guys like Hulk Hogan and the A-listers, it was always a little disappointing when guys like Brutus the Barber Beefcake and Randy Savage made the leap to the big time and lost some of the allure, and started to drown in their own hype.

Me and my mates got in trouble at school for clotheslining each other, but nobody ever seemed to understand that there was just as much fun in coming up with outlandish and elaborate wrestling identities, and we spent way more time on the trash talk and figuring out our entrance music than we did actually hurting each other.

But then we figured out we could do moves in the swimming pool at the house we were renting, and it was a lot easier to pick each other up and slam them down when you're in a five-foot deep pool. We would record our rants into the tape deck, then bash each other around the pool, and we beat the shit out of the pool, it was an over-ground thing held together by sheet iron and plastic and the whole thing literally fell apart when I threw Anthony or Kyle into the side once too often.

That kind of white hot obsession never really lasts and while it was It was all-consuming for a little while, most of us quickly tired of it. The tedious Hogan v Warrior fight in Wrestlemania VI was about the end of it, which meant the whole craze rose and peaked within 18 months.

Apart from the utter joy of getting totally ripped and playing eight-man tag matches on the PS2, that was as far as I ever went with the wrestling, and missed out on the era of The Rock, Cena and Austin, and whoever they've got going these days.

And I know it gets bad, I've seen the documentaries, especially the addictive Dark Side of the Ring. A lot of those man mountains have died of weird heart attacks and brain embolisms and getting shot in the back of the fucking head. The horror of the Benoit story and the infinite sadness of the Von Erich family show that there was real pain behind the smack-talk

(Although the one where there is acknowledgement that the guy died doing what he loved - and make no mistake, he LOVED hookers and cocaine - has a kind of zen brilliance.)

But shit, when you're 13 and these huge musclemen are hurling themselves around, it's the most amazing thing in the world. I'm still coasting on that high.

- Originally published on October 11 2021
The kids are still too young to get into wrestling, but I look forward to the day when they inevitably fall in love with it. I am not looking forward to the day when they try out their moves on me.

Here comes the past #2: Why I love Lobo (and you probably shouldn't)

Lobo is a one-joke character, and if you think that joke is puerile, immature or obscene, it’s obviously not the comic for you.

I fraggin’ love that joke, and can’t get enough Lobo comics.

It’s hard to believe now, but there were at least two or three months in the early nineties when Lobo was the coolest and most popular character in all comics. It didn't last, but still showed that new characters with attitudes that could be reprehensible to older readers could still find a solid audience.

Lobo first showed up in the Omega Men in a godawful pastel skintight costume, created by Roger Slifer and Keith Giffen, and then appeared in his leathers in Justice League International and L.E.G.I.O.N. comics. But his first mini-series made him a proper comic book star, thanks largely to Simon Bisley’s grisly details and rampant brush, and Giffen and Alan Grant’s real wit, hidden deep within the hyper-violence

Lobo was always a blowhard badass, but that hyperactive first mini-series crystallised the character as a terrible force of nature, driven by primal desires. In a comic book universe full of superheroes who always did the right thing, the Lobo philosophy – that with great power, comes no responsibility, just loads of mayhem – might have been nihilistic, but it also felt fresh and exciting.

Lobo is a reprehensible character, make no mistake about it. He does have a code, a soft spot for space dolphins and a real sense of honour, but he is other wise thoroughly unlikeable – a psychopathic maniac who leaves chaos and destruction and beer cans in the wake of his passing.

But I don’t want to be friends with all the characters I read about in comic books, and it’s all right to have an unlikeable main character, and still like the stories he is in. The films of directors like Ben Wheatley and Steve Soderburgh can be full of utterly repellent characters, but still be great films. There isn’t a single likeable or honourable character in Goodfells, but it’s still a great fuckin’ movie.

There are a lot of things I don’t like about Lobo, but it’s his crassness and refusal to apologise for it that makes him such a great character. Lobo will never admit there is anything more to life than partying hard and playing rough, and there is a weirdly enviable purity about that.

Besides, he only really hurts bad people who really deserve it. Most of the time.

That level of chaos and destruction in a comic character has been repeated over and over again in the past two decades, but it actually did feel interesting in 1992, and for a brief moment there, Lobo really was the most popular character in all of comics.

This inevitably led to a glut of Lobo comics, and while the basic joke about Lobo is a strong one, it can still be stretched too thin.

There were tonnes of weird little mini-series and one-shots. Giffen and/or Grant were usually involved with all of them, and they did produce the excellent Unamerican Gladiators with Cam Kennedy and a couple of cool one-off stories with gorgeously grotesque art from the likes of Kev O’Neill and Marty Edmond.

But by the time Lobo actually got his own ongoing series, the joke had been told too many times, and his moment had passed. I still have a huge soft spot for the monthly Lobo series, thanks largely to some terrible, terrible puns and the criminally underrated artwork of Val Semekis, and it did manage to last five years before cancellation, but nobody really cared about Lobo anymore, and he became another punchline in the jokes about early nineties comics.

Then again…

I know people who never read any comics, except Lobo. They think he’s the greatest comic character ever, and have no interest in any other comics. They just like reading Lobo.

Lobo appeals to people who don’t always get into comics, - self-titled losers and wasters who just wanted to get loaded and have a good time. He appeals to people with an anti-authority flavour, who just want to see something crazyass, and get real kicks out of seeing somebody buck the system with such impunity and fun. He appeals to 13-year-old Iron Maiden fans and sixty-year-old tattoo artists.

It’s easy to sniff at Lobo for being lowbrow and tasteless, but sometimes it feels like shameless trash is the only thing that feels real and true. Lobo sticks his finger up at The Man, and then pisses on The Man’s mutilated corpse. Who wouldn’t get a kick out of that?

It’s surprisingly hard to get that right tone of dopey humour and raw mayhem that makes Lobo work, and his infrequent appearances over the past few years have missed the point spectacularly. Even Grant Morrison, who can sum up somebody like Green Arrow in one great line, completely failed to really get the character right in 52 (probably because – as the writer admitted – he just didn’t understand Lobo at all).

He's a primal force of chaos and stupidity. Anything else is fragging ridiculous.

***

- Originally published September 12, 2012

Lobo has just showed up in a big budget film and I laughed out loud when I saw him on the side of a bus the other day. Pass the barf bag, vicar.

Here comes the past #1: My life on the Never Ending Board

A couple of days ago I was mucking about on the internet, indulging in meaningless nostalgia, when I stumbled across a piece of fiction I wrote back in 1997.  That's right in the middle of my fan fiction phase and it was exactly as terrible as you would imagine.

But it was still fascinating, especially when I couldn't remember writing that particular bit of fiction. It was completely missing from my memories of those days, so I got to read a short story that I'd essentially written to myself, 16 years removed.

It wasn't all bad – I made myself laugh at a Prisoner in-joke. (I was 22 in 1997. Of course there was a Prisoner in-joke). And it basically made sense. But the writing was overheated and breathless, and trying so hard to be really, really clever, and it's definitely the work of somebody with some serious self-worth issues, which may still be lingering. Which is a little troubling.

But even though I'm too embarrassed to even search for all the other stuff I did at the time – which I'm fairly sure is still on the internet somewhere - I don't regret my fan fiction days at all.

There is no shame here.

I never intended to start writing fan fiction. It just happened.

There are four million people in New Zealand, but we all live on the arse end of the world, so there is bound to be feelings of isolation. I've talked before about how the internet changed everything, and made me feel like I was part of a greater community. I ended up gravitating towards the Comic Book Resources message boards, in the days when it was clad in sickly purple and yellow word balloons, and that was my first home on the web.

It didn't take me long to realise that all the cool kids were writing their own stuff in one particular section of CBR that was devoted to fan fiction, and that looked like a hell of a lot of fun, so I started doing my own stories and putting them out there in the world.

They weren't strictly fan fiction – they weren't stories devoted to Batman or Doc Savage or anything like that. The setting for all these stories was a multi-universal street that ran forever, and that just meant any character from any comic or movie or TV show or novel or song could pop in for an appearance, but the vast majority of stories that sprouted up on CBR's Never Ending Board featured the writer's own creations.

There was the Dadamerican, and Buried Alien, and Joe Grendel, and the Mighty Hank, and Wet Willie, and Merlin & Cowman, and the Scarlet Dragon, and Wheat Lad, and Goldenager, and Rydgen, and Hatman, and Sharpshooter & Snow Sabre, and Paper Bag Boy, and OzBat, and the Phantom Scribbler, and the White Knight, and Amyzon, and Typo Lad, and literally hundreds of other characters, long before I even started writing things.

The stories had only been running a few months by the time I joined in, and there were already recognisable cliques amongst posters, but the other writers - who were often indistinguishable from the characters they created - were incredibly welcoming, and I ended up writing a couple of dozen stories featuring my own creations, and it was marvellous.

I've still got a few stories I did from those days saved on my hard drive, in dusty old computer folders that haven't been opened since 2006. And there are a few that are still floating around on the web, (usually on sites that still have big, flashy nineties ads on them), but I don't think I could bear looking for them.

Because, despite the fantastic encouragement I got at the time, they really are unobjectively terrible – the first fumbling efforts at proper writing, all spat out for the world to see. The last few times I ever looked at that work, I cringed like a motherfucker. They're impossibly clumsy, and the two major influences on my writing at that time were – by some way – the Invisibles and the Doctor Who New Adventures, which were both pretty goddamn self-indulgent, so it wasn't pretty when I added my own ego to the mix.

When I do stumble across something that I wrote back then, I do see glimpses of what I was going for, but I generally failed to pay it off. Sometimes I got it right – I was so pleased with one action sequence involving a moving car and a hatchet that I have used it several times since - but in general, it's mostly rubbish.

But I don't regret spending all that time thinking and writing about those silly little stories. Most of the feedback that was produced was unhelpfully positive, but I figured out how to plot stories, and work with other writers (and their creations), and it was a great place to leech off all those youthful enthusiasms in my writing.

And there was such freedom in fan fiction writing. The ability to do whatever you want when you're not trying to please anybody but yourself was enormously liberating. The whole idea of just writing for fun - not to make money or reach a huge audience - but just for the fun of putting words together to create a viewpoint.

I was also going through a fairly difficult period in my life (again, I was 22, and we're all going through difficult periods at that age), but all of that was forgotten when I switched off and went back to J Street to add a brick to a huge wall of stories.

Sometimes it really helped - on the day I found out one of my oldest friends in the world was quietly ripping me off I started writing the adventures of a Jerry Cornelius rip-off called Dr Skin, and the Therapeutic Skin Jobs (as they were super-cleverly called) really did make me feel better. That sort of writing didn't help with proper trauma, but it certainly made me feel less grumpy on blah days.

I never made a conscious decision to stop writing fan fiction, it just faded away, as things tend to do in life. I wasn't alone - nobody has written a new J Street story in years and years. I do occasionally start writing another Therapeutic Skin Jobs every couple of years or so, but rarely finish them
 
I never really gave up fiction, and have even collaborated with several NEB writers on move scripts and prose things, but that was still just writing for kicks, not for any greater consumption.

And now I've got the Tearoom of Despair, which satisfies almost all of my writing urges on a daily basis. (I did finish off another short novel last year, but I haven't written any proper fiction since then.) There isn't the charge of collaboration, or the kick of a really good story idea, but it's basically the same thrill as fan fiction writing. This writing is all for fun, not for fortune and glory, and that's the way I'd like to keep it.

We do all think less of something when we hear it is fan fiction - 50 Shades of Grey never got over being a Twilight fan fiction for many people - and there is just cause for this, because the vast majority of it is terrible.

But I think it's also a hell of a lot of fun, a great way to purge the worst habits of fiction writing and a terrific way to meet people who are into the same things as you. I've only actually meet the Dadamerican and The Mighty Hank in person, but I have made some great friends through all this silliness, (and lost a few, too. Nope Callahan! Where are you, man? Email me at bobtemuka at Hotmail!).

I don't regret spending all that time and effort on something as silly as fan fiction. It's a phase I have long moved past, and one that I'm not going to revisit all that often, but I'm glad I did it.

- Originally posted September 20, 2013

I ended up republishing all the Therapeutic Skin Jobs here on the blog, and even wrote a new one with all sorts of NEB cameos a couple of years ago. I haven't written much fiction since the kids came along, but there is always some Doctor Skin in me. Many of the people who used to write on the NEB still regularly do online roleplaying adventures together, and sometimes I go have a look. I don't know what they are on about, but it gives me an enormous feeling of wellbeing. 

A note on the future of the Tearoom of Despair

It's not going anywhere.  Horror, futility and endless buttered scones will remain on the menu.

I'm not running out of dumb things to say, and will keep doing it for as long as I can. There is always more cool shit to spotlight, and moronic shit to scoff at.

But it's a busy month ahead - I always thought I'd be a renter but we somehow bought our first home and are moving in this month, so that's a lot to deal with. And after spending the last month writing several thousand words about dusty old UK comic annuals from long ago, I need a break.

Fortunately, after 17 and a half years of near constant posting, there is plenty in the archives to fall back on, so it's another month of recycled material. See you in August, for more of the same.

Thrill-Power Countdown #1: Judge Dredd Annual 1981

If I was sent into exile on some desert island, and could only take one book with me, there is a very good chance it would be the first Judge Dredd annual. If there was ever a battle royale between actual comics, I would put my money on this book, because the Bolland cover alone would beat the snot out of half the competition, before you even get inside.

This is again Mick McMahon at his absolute finest, capturing the desperation of Mega-City One, the horrors of the nuclear ghosts of Milwaukee, and the silliness of human-sized pinball games.

The stories are all Wagner at his finest - his tale about the man's heart being taken by the state might be the first example where Judge Dredd is actually a terrifying bad guy who can totally ruin some poor geek's life by using the Law against him. (And if you fight back, they will take everything from you, except your screams.) 

The smaller stories still pack a punch - the Walter the Wobot fable is even quite good, with a young Brendan McCarthy doing a Spirit pastiche; while the Shok! story by Kevin O'Neill is genuinely exciting, and so good it was ripped off wholesale for a feature film.

It certainly helps that this is the only annual that doesn't really have any reprint at all - it's all new thrills, all the time. The only thing from an earlier age is the unpublished first episode, spiked because it wasn't far out enough, and infuriating artist Carlos Ezquerra, who had nothing to do with the character for years, before coming back as the ultimate Dredd artist

The filler material is a huge part in fleshing out Dredd's world, looking at both the creation of the character and the fictional world he inhabits, while also comparing different artist's takes on Old Stoney Face. And Ron Smith's frontispiece picture of Mega-City One at night is the most beautiful rendering of the Big Meg I've ever seen.  

This is, without a doubt, the best annual ever produced, setting an astronomically high bar that all the later annuals never quite reached. I've had my copy of this since the 80s and it is beat to hell, with the names of family friends written in big blue marker on the inside pages, and I wouldn't trade it for anything. If all my other comics vanished, I would still be happy with this, the best comic book I've ever owned. 

Thrill-Power Countdown #2: 2000ad Annual 1986

I'm 10 years old when I see this annual appear in the bookstore at the Stafford Mall in Timaru. It's only the second annual I've ever seen in the flesh. It costs $4.95, which is a drokk-tonne of money when the regular prog still costs around 55 cents, but it's worth every cent.

Belardinelli's artwork on the Ace Trucking Co story that opens the annual has never looked more beautiful, with a neon pastel colour scheme that could not be more 1985, and is all the more memorable for it. Ian Gibson's art on the Dredd story also has a strangely vibrant sheen to it (although it is yet another smuggling into Mega-City One story - this time it's coffee).

Strontium Dog has Johnny Alpha being a cold and hard bastard, which he just uses to hide his wonderfully soft heart (and it's drawn by Ezquerra, so it's legit Dog); and Cam Kennedy has been the definitive Rogue Trooper artist for some time, but rarely works in colour on the character, and that bright blue skin really shines on the thick, glossy paper.

The 1986 annual also has the best reprint of any of them, collecting together the Shako storyline form 2000ad's early days, and is just page after page of people dying in gory and inventive ways. My favourite is always going to be poor old Jimbo, the local drunk, who gets the giant polar bear shitfaced, and Shako likes the little guy, but gets so wasted he sees two Jimbos, and one of them has to go!

I'm 10 years old and this book is one of the biggest and most concentrated bursts of pure thrill-power I ever get in my entire life. It might have been 10 times as expensive as the prog, but the pages still fizz with energy when I crack them open again 40 years later, and that's truly priceless.

Thrill-Power Countdown #3: Judge Dredd Annual 1982

It was no surprise that Bolland quickly found success in the United States with his clean lines, but it's also little surprise that Mike McMahon never gained a foothold. Too abstract, too warped, just too weird.

But there is a generation of British comic readers who will follow McMahon wherever he will go - and he does go to some places - because he was once doing stellar work on Dredd every week in the prog, and producing the achingly wonderful artwork for this annual.

The fatties of Mega-City One have never been so beautifully outlandish, and the art on The Vampire Effect is nothing short of brilliant - the villain is a white void that just eats everything, but McMahon's use of shadow and colour makes it a visceral and genuinely scary strip.

There are flaws in this diamond of an annual - it's always nice to get a Mean Machine solo story, but Robin Smith's art looks especially stilted when surrounded by McMahon's efforts, while there is a terrible Walter the Wobot story (to be fair, almost all the Walter The Wobot stories are terrible, even when they occasionally get Bolland on the art).

But this is early 80s 2000ad at its best, and its best is McMahon. He would go on to the stunning abstractions of Slaine and Howler and the occasional Batman, but his annual work is the pinnacle.

Thrill-Power Countdown #4: 2000ad Annual 1988

They don't need to threaten Tharg on the cover - killing the alien editor of 2000ad is my idea of a good time, not a threat - because the 1987 annual is just an absolute monster of a book. Many of the annuals have peaks and troughs of quality, but this one really seems like a complete package of thrills. 

There is Carlos Ezquerra on Strontium Dog, and Kevin O'Neill on Nemesis, and Brendan McCarthy with a more down-to-earth Judge Dredd effort from the mind expanding artist, (although it's yet another annual plot that is more than a little familiar, with glamorous female perps turning out to Wally Squad).

And the 1988 effort is also packed with more O'Neill and Dave Gibbons, with reprints of the Ro-Busters story about Hammerstein's adventures on the front line of the Vogon war.  It's beautiful artwork with a story that actually hits harder now than it did in other times - all that Vogon stuff felt quite dated for a while, but now seems scarily topical.

It doesn't have any of the very best stories in this run of annuals, but the overall book has a pleasant feeling of completeness, or getting everything you could possibly want from mid-1980s 2000ad, and just a little bit more.