Foghorn - No. 55

Issue 55The best of British cartooning talent

FOGHORN

THE FOGHORN2 WWW.PROCARTOONISTS.ORG

NEWS

The magazine of the Professional Cartoonists’ Organisation (FECO UK)

FOGHORNFOGHORN Issue 55

Published in Great Britain by theProfessional Cartoonists’Organisation (FECO UK)

PCO PatronsLibby Purves Andrew MarrBill Tidy Martin Wainwright

Foghorn EditorBill Stott

tel: +44 (0) 1606 46002email: [email protected]

Foghorn Sub-EditorRoger Penwill


Foghorn Layout/DesignCathy Simpson


PCO Press Officeemail: [email protected]

Web infoPCO (FECO UK) website:

http://www.procartoonists.org

BLOGHORNhttp://thebloghorn.org/

What is Foghorn? British cartoon art has a great, ignoble history and currently boasts a huge pool of talent. It

deserves a higher media presence than it currently enjoys. Our aim

is to make sure it gets it. We want to promote cartoon art domestically and internationally by encouraging high standards of artwork and service, looking after

the interests of cartoonists and promoting their work in all kinds

of media.

CopyrightAll the images in this magazine are the intellectual property and

copyright of their individual creators and must not be copied or reproduced, in any format,

without their consent.

Front Cover: Andy DaveyBack Cover: Steve Bright

Foghorn (Print) ISSN 1758-8758

Glossop: 6 Pangolin: 32

I hate goodbyes. You know, the bit where the people you wanted rid of for the last two hours fanny about in the hall doing hugs and cheek kissing, saying really original things like, “We musn’t leave it so long next time. “ or, “You REALLY MUST come over to us soon,” with the front door open and all the warm rushing out.

But this one’s not like that. I’ve had a ball writing rubbish for Foghorn and been staggered by the generosity of members and privileged to

work with Tim Harries, Cathy Simpson, Roger Penwill and Ger Whyman. They’ve all managed, by dint of being very capable folk, to make some sort of sense of my shambolic editorial philosophy.

Gets coat. Wipes eyes, blows hooter, wanders off…

Bill Stott, Foghorn Ed.


“I have to admit - it hasn’t been the best team building exercise ever”

“‘Your application is held in a queueand will be processed shortly’”

“One of my songs has been used in a major advertising campaign, so I’m afraid I no longer have the blues”

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FEATURE RUPERT BESLEY

The Old, Old Story

Sweat ran from Phut’s armpits like the waters of Babylon. It coursed down his sides and vanished into the sands of the desert. It was the same with all around him, parched, emaciated, burnt – all suckers who had signed up for work with Online Services, Aswan. Such was the flow of sweat that a miraculous flowering of salt-loving plants would mark their path the following spring. But still the Pyramids shimmered miles off in the distance and still the bloody great block of granite seemed barely to move. Time for a morale-booster, thought the gangmaster.

At a given signal, the three lads from the boy band in Giza did something weird on their ram’s-horns, the whippers dropped their whips and the gangmaster leapt on to the shining cube of rock. Flicking aside his high-factor sunblock cape, he drew from his thong something small and brown.

‘I have here in my hand, on this piece of papyrus, a message from Our Great Leader, the Mighty Pharaoh,’ he began. ‘Triangle – beetle – eye – bogbrush – twirly thing –’ he went on. All eyes turned to Greybeard, the Learned One (fourth rope, three down). Greybeard knew things. He could read. It wasn’t that long since he had been Head of Media Studies at the Cairo Institute; but life changed for him that fateful day when he was caught in the bulrushes, jotting down the twitterings of gossip and scandal that passed between Pharaoh’s wives as they pummelled their smalls in the Nile.

In a quavering voice the old man began to translate. ‘My friends and fellow-workers, privileged co-participants in this Great Enterprise of mine. Y’know, we’re all in this togeth-’ That was when they all set upon him.

* * *

Chuck J Ballgladder III passed a grubby spacesuit sleeve over the window and peered out at the Red Planet below. There was the Hellas Basin and there was that funny crater thing that looked like his teacher of Math. Was he losing his mind? Not yet. He unclipped his Space Wundapen to mark down the moment. It was the only thing so far to have come out of the last 20 years of Space Exploration, a biro that would write anywhere – on top of Everest, inside a bank, upside-down in submarines, on the wet flank of a fresh-caught halibut, anywhere. Anywhere except in space. Instead of an elegant line, it made a stuttering scratch, visible only in certain lights, on the panel above his bunk. Shivering slightly, he allowed himself a brief, celebratory lick of the tube marked Nutrition Stick, Finger Lickin’ Chicken Flavor. It was his last.

Down at Mission Control there was uncertainty whether or not to applaud the tiny capsule as it completed its 500th orbit of Mars. Trouble was, this was 495 laps more than ever intended.

53.6 million miles away, in the rogue module, Ballgladder saw the face of the Pillock in Charge loom up on his screen. ‘Houston to CB3, now you’ve hit the big five-double-oh, we’ve got someone very special who’d like a word –’

The picture changed to a cosy glow from the White House, familiar from fireside chats in times of national emergency. Steam spiralled up from the cocoa mug, the dog Tootie (short for Two Term – this president loathed dogs, but his team had insisted he stood no chance of re-election without a hound the nation could love) lay farting on a rug and the President, in off-duty sweater and flickering firelight, sat deep in the armchair.

‘Hi Chick,’ he called to camera, ‘how’s it goin’, buddy?’‘Jus’ fine, Mr President, I’m good.’

Rupert Besley reflects on pyramids, pillocks and Gizas. All in it together. Innit.

THE FOGHORN 5WWW.PROCARTOONISTS.ORG

FEATURE RUPERT BESLEY

‘Well, that’s great, cos down here we’re having a real time of it. There’s some days been so hectic I could do with being up there with you. But you know this, Ched, our guys are doing all they can and we’re goin’ to get you down somehow. I jus’ want you to know, we’re all in this to-’

Ballgladder reached for the Off Button. Before stepping out of the door, he sucked dry the last of his food tubes and reached for the pen. BASTARDS, he wrote. Or would have done, had the pen been able to write. All it managed was STAR. It was a word that had internet bloggers and conspiracy theorists going for decades to come.


“Let us through.We’re a consortium of GP’s”

Southern Counties’ Formation DanceTeam perform the Gentlemen’s

Excuse Me

“My wealth doesn’t so much trickle down as embed itself in people’s heads.”

“Egrets? I’ve had a few.”


“Did you hear that? The country is going to the dogs.”

Sharks circling, freeboard disappearing, but what to do, what to do,thought Fat Bob the Bosun.

“You’ve exceeded your overdraft limit - there’s no question of ‘11th-hour crunch

talks to hammer out a deal’.”

“It’s just this constant feeling of impending doom.”

“That’s not for sale, it’s our company’s mission statement.”


THE FOGHORN GUIDE TO BEING IN IT TOGETHER

In these times of desperate national need with unburied bodies littering our streets and certain parts of the House of Lords, your Foghorn Team thinks outside the (reused) envelope and offers advice and solace to the oft forgotten Drop Dead Rich. Its all very well providing soup kitchens for homeless ex-factory workers, but what about the conscience-riven idle wealthy? Who lends an understanding ear to them?

So, over the last few months, Foghorn researchers have prepared a series of FAQs based on confidential interviews with F.W.A.A.R.I.I. (Folk Who Are Absolutely Rolling In It) Think Tank in the hope that those affected will feel not quite as alone in the knowledge that there are others out there who also don’t know what gruel is.

Q. What should I do if I know that whilst my family and I are partaking of delicious ten course meal and fine wines, the poor of the town are in my garden, gnawing trees?

A. Close the curtains. Or better still, get a servant to do it. This will allow charades to continue uninterrupted and invest the lackey with a much-needed sense of job security.

Q. The media tells me that many of the people classified as poor are also very fat. How can this be?

A. An interesting anomaly, and Dr J.C. Whimbrel, Head of the P.M.S.B.T.I.I. (Please Make it Sound Better Than It Is) group, commissioned recently by Our Leader’s phenomenally successful Happiness Campaign, pulls no punches here. “Either these poor, fat wobblies’ families chose the wrong side at Bosworth, or they’re actually eating each other.”

Q. I cannot help feeling guilty that I have so much whilst others have so little. I am undecided as to whether I should get Dilworth to drive me around the local Council Estate so that I might distribute small bags of cash – say £1000 each – to the poor and needy.

A. This is an understandable and laudable sentiment, but you must be careful about giving things, especially money, to poor people. Many will only spend it, then come back for more. Registration number checks are easy to do, and many of the poor have squandered what little money they once had on computers. If your mind is made up, hire a vehicle and adopt a disguise. But by far the best way of salving your conscience would be to have your kitchen staff boil up the week’s food scraps, making a nourishing broth which, placed in a stout polythene (a type of plastic) bag and tossed from the hired vehicle into the shamefully neglected front gardens of the Council Estate homes should do the trick.

Q. Am I alone in thinking that this whole “poor” people issue is a myth manufactured by those lying Socialists? At least twice in the last four years I have had occasion to be driven through my local town, due to roadworks on the bypass, or on one occasion a traffic accident caused by the children of the (alleged) poor rushing out of their (free) school into the path of an expensive articulated tanker without looking. I am an observant person. Not once have I seen anyone without shoes. Not once did I see starved corpses.

A. Research suggests that you may well be right. Clear definitions of what “poor” is are difficult to come by. Starving to death, having no money, or succumbing to hypothermia are often put forward as pointers here, but Captain Scott perished in extreme cold, and he wasn’t short of a bob or two. And he had lots of corned beef.

We hope that this shortened version of our Q+A paper has served to allay your fears. In conclusion, and recalling the wise words of Vlad the Impaler, “Being rich is what happiness is all about. If we didn’t have poor people to compare ourselves to, how could we be happy?”

THE FOGHORN GUIDE TO ALL BEING IN IT TOGETHER


“Now - that IS scary.”

“This is your Captain speaking - well, not really a Captain I suppose - I conned my way into this job. Selling cars is SO

boring. Anyway, First Offi cer McPhee’s utterly blathered and I just spilled coffee on the landing instructions...”

“When we get there you’ll have to switch that into whisper mode.”


“I’M SITTING IN THE QUIET CARRIAGE.”


FEATURE CURMUDGEON

Its only a matter of weeks old and already 2012’s produced so many things which have securely lodged themselves up my hooter that I’m breathing through my mouth nearly all the time.

Admittedly, many aren’t new exactly, but you’d’ve thought they might have become unfashionable by now.

But we’re still hearing all that tripe about the ineffectualityness (G.W.Bush, ex-Presidentarious Person) of taxing the pips out of rich people; how it would only reduce our national debt by .007839 of a penny; of how

outlawing bankers’ obscene bonuses would make them go abroad etc etc, ad bloody infi nitum.

Well I say, tax the rich so hard they can only afford to travel economy class like I do. Better still OUTSIDE the ‘plane. It might not help the national, sorry, BANKERS debt, but by God it’d make me feel better. And as for said bankers – trumpeted as the best in the world – let them clear off. If they’re the A team, give me the second stringers any day.And all the while, Dave or Nicky or that dreadful Smugborne chap keep chanting “We are all in this together.” It’s the “we” which really gets me biting the furniture.

What they really mean is, “We independently rich types don’t actually have anything else to do, and if we get sacked it doesn’t matter because we’re loaded. So we thought we’d dabble a bit in government, re-arrange your drab little lives, run happiness surveys, knacker your pensions whilst going easy on the banks and big businesses which make us independently wealthy, and bomb Libya.”

Phew! I feel a bit less bitter and twisted now. Nothing like a good old unload. There’s the germ of an idea here. A National Moan. Live. Strictly Come Moaning. Regional teams competing on telly. Could be a winner.

But who to judge it? Dave? Nicky? Georgie? Naah.They wouldn’t have a clue because they haven’t got anything to bloody moan about. (Discuss)

“Times are hard. I’ve had to settle for a low-sugar daddy.”

“There are many far worse off than us,at least we have our own bus.”


“Sir! Sir! I feel I might be developing a case of repetitive strain injury.”


Foghorn ObituariesElsie Whinge (nee Moan) b 30/3/23 d 20/11/11

Norman Whingeb 4/4/24 d 26/11/11

Our picture shows Elsie and Norman overjoyed upon receiving their free Christmas lights last year. (Supplied by Glossop’s Miserable Old Gits Volunteers). As children neither Elsie nor Norman were ever happy, so it came as no surprise when they announced their engagement, to co-workers at Glossop String Works in the spring of 1944. Norman had been dishonourably discharged from the Army for making SAS offi cers weep, but more than made up for that by entering into a long, drab, uneventful marriage to Elsie which staggered along for ages. A coroner’s inquest found that Elsie and Norman had probably bored each other to death.

Sir Aubrey Phibes-Doughnut RNVRb 14/5/16 d 21/11/11

Whilst he came to public notice in the early days of television as the famous one-armed angler (seen here demonstrating the size of a carp he never caught), Aubrey “Call me Audrey” Phibes-Doughtnut was the darling of the inter-wars arts set, hosting parties for celebrated performers. Benjamin Britten and Peter Pears were often seen on the lawns of Thrustings, the Phibes-Doughnut family seat, frolicking with Aubrey’s cocker.

Miss Lucinda Ripperb 17/6/20 d 25/11/11

Longtime Headmistress of Abattoir View Mixed Infants, Miss Ripper is remembered by ex-pupils as being “fi rm and completely unfair”. Lucinda Ripper favoured direct teaching methods. Numeracy was taught by counting fi ngers and mistakes were punished by breaking them, usually with a steel ruler. Away from teaching, Lucinda Ripper enjoyed clubbing fi sh, running over cripples in her MG sports car and pints of neat vodka.

Most of Ripper’s little charges will recall her farewells at the school gate at 3.30pm. “Go on, **** off you little ***tards!”


In a recent survey of 27,000,000 British citizens, 98% said they would love to slap a custard pie into the face of our hard-working Chancellor.

Participant Gary Cattermole (27) said “Yeah well. Be good, wouldn’ it? I mean. ‘E’s got one o’ them faces yer wanna push anyway, right? But that’s be assault, right? But the pie thing, well that’s just funny, right?”

“I notice you’re claiming non-domicile status again, Mr Bull.”

“I’d also like to welcome Henderson here, who joins us through Equal Opportunities for the undead.”


Our ongoing series of interesting school photos reveals this one from Gimp Road Juniors, Goole, around 1959; alma mater of good old Eric Pickles.

Eric’s seen here making up the entire second from back row.

All but one of his classmates’ names are unknown except for (front row, crosslegged, left) June Quiff. Who smelt of wee.


Cartoons by Clive Collins

CARTOONS BY CLIVE COLLINS

“Push, push, push! There’s always one that wants to be the fi rst in line!”

“Hal and I are still some way from a settlement. I want the house, the car and 50% of the money, and he wants my head

on a plate.”

“Sir, all I’m saying is that, maybe just this once, we shouldn’t discount the

possibility that a butler did it.”

“Health & Safety are OK on ‘all for one’ but not too happy on ‘one for all’”

“Is ‘family’ friend or foe?”“Ignore it - it’s probably just a mirage.”


BUILDINGS IN THE FOG WITH ROGER PENWILL

Building in AusterityOver the years architects have provided innovative ideas for housing and building in tough economic times.

Moving beyond caves, mud huts and shacks, perhaps the best came from a 60’s design group called Archigram. This lot were at the cutting edge of envisaging how we would live in the future (i.e. around about now). Pods featured a lot (and half a century before the iPod which is totally something else entirely) . “Pod” was a good word for a living unit that was formed in the shape of, well, a pod.

Fibreglass was the new material of choice for pods. It was tough-ish and could be any shape that could be formed in a mould. If it did get a hole you could patch it. So pods took many pod shapes, from free-form to geometric.

The thing about architectural pods is that you can plug them in. And that they can grow organically. Natural growth is good. So if you are very poor you would start with a basic hovel pod. This would be a room with nothing in it except a bit straw, a bucket, you and optional partner.

As your fortune and family grew you could plug in facilitating module pods such as an en-suite shower and bidet pod, kitchen pod, sleeping pods, conservatory pod, swedish nanny pod and personal airship tethering point

(alternatively roof-mounted pods could have a helipad module).

And all these groups of pods could be plugged into something else. That something would probably be a brightly mauve and orange painted steel frame with groovy big circular holes in the columns and beams. This frame would have the permanent infrastructure (from the Greek words for “infra” and “structure”) necessary for the community to function: such as jogging tracks, roads, road/built-environment interfaces (footpaths) and lolly-pop ladies. Schools could start as one-room infant school pods and grow into multi-faculty universities. Corner shop pods could grow into Tesco pods. Paddling pool pods into Olympic Swimming Pool pods. You get the idea.

Then, as envisaged by Archigram, all these collections of pods could be grouped into walking cities. Giant steel pods on legs. A city like Northampton could up-sticks and trundle northwards for a bit, becoming Evenfurthernorthampton.

Or it could even wade across the channel and France could have

it. L’Ampton Nord; which must be allowable under EU cross-border mobility rules. Mind you, we wouldn’t want Lille or Nancy coming over here. Bordeaux would be welcome, though, if it brought some decent wine.In lean times such as these, poorer areas of a city could move itself out to somewhere where it’s cheaper to be poor. To an area with lower house prices, some nice countryside and where the kids won’t grow up with a funny accent.. Of course it would prove to be a nightmare for the local planning department. There would have to legislation. Residents of Torquay wouldn’t like to wake up to find Tower Hamlets had arrived overnight and nicked all the sea views.

Well, here we are in the future and we don’t have much of this yet. However we do have small towns of a population of 4000 people or more that float around the world. Although of course there is the risk of their floating ability being diminished on occasion, generally this housing mobility has echoes of Archigram’s predictions. Mind you, it’s not for the poor, but there you go.

Roger Penwill


“No, today is toenail clipping, icicle chipping is on Monday.”

“Men, you have let me down again! Where is my Pulitzer

prize winning editorial cartoon?”

“Nice to see Harrington’s still wearing his old school tie.”


THE LAST WORD

The CriticDon’t Make Me LaughFoghorn’s resident critic Pete Dredge watches telly so you don’t have to.This may well be the last Critic piece for a while but there will be no easing up on the vitriol I’m afraid, ladies and gents. The distinctive sound of excoriating finger nails scraping barrel bottoms must have been heard coming from the BBC’s Light Entertainment/Comedy Department for miles around if the recent The Ones series is anything to go by. A vehicle for ‘once great but not quite cutting it anymore’ comedians to embarrass themselves in front of a ‘live’ audience, not to mention the million or so viewers at home.

At the time of writing Lenny Henry and Jasper Carrott had been wheeled out to perform a mix of stand-up and filmed sketches, the quality of which would have done Leslie Crowther and Peter Glaze proud in the days of 1960’s Crackerjack. Griff Rhys Jones is the final performer in this series, but if his performance as host of “It’ll be All Right On The Night 87” is anything to go by he’s in good company here.

It started quite promisingly with the opening Lenny Henry sketch lampooning the Danish TV phenomenon, The Killing. The subtitling gag was clever (I’m guessing Mark Warren and Charles Peattie were responsible for that one as I noted their names on the writing credits) but it was downhill all the way once Henry literally burst on to the scene. In an age where “Live at the Apollo”, “Have I Got News for

You”, “Mock The Week” and “Qi” etc strut their witty, cutting, contemporary stuff on endless ‘Dave’ repeats as well as on the BBC it seems bizarre that licence-payers’ money could have been invested in this reheated and rehashed tripe.

It seems that the recently aired One Ronnie special over Christmas, featuring Ronnie Corbett in a series of ‘new’ sketches had inspired some BBC executive to milk the contrived format for all that it’s worth.

It’s a shame ‘cos these guys were cutting edge in their prime. I can even remember laughing out loud at a Jasper Carrott sketch once about accident insurance claims back in the ‘70’s.

Whatever made them think this limp, lack-lustre material would stand up in 2012 beats me. Give me Victoria Wood every time.

Pete Dredge

FOGHORN (PRINT) ISSN 1758-8758

Foghorn’s about and by cartoonists. All cartoonists owe Ronald Searle. There can’t be one of us who hasn’t at some time or other been influenced by Searle’s immense ability. As eny fule kno.

Foghorn - No. 55

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