Some corner of a foreign field, that is forever England...

The tragically short-lived poet, Rupert Brooke, most certainly had a very different location in mind when he wrote 'The Soldier' back in the early 1900s, but for me, that corner of a foreign field that is forever England, henceforth will always be the corner spot of the Nelson Mandela Bay Stadium, Port Elizabeth, South Africa, where England's national soccer team camped out for the last three minutes of their game with Slovenia, desperately determined to hold on to their 1-0 lead, enabling them to claw their way into the Round of 16, and their ultimate humiliation at the hands of the German national squad.

For me though, those final three minutes were the true pinnacle of that humiliation, and even as a native Scot, it gives me no pleasure to recall it. Up until that moment, I had done my level best to will my English cousins to greatness, despite the inordinately poor performances over the three matches leading up to that point. The media triumphalism that immediately emerged from what ought to have been a moment of great relief and self-reckoning however, having only just managed to scrape past the least-fancied and smallest nation in the World Cup Finals, finally put paid to my new-found allegiance. That and the fact that England's next opponents were to be my mother's national team, Germany. Which meant I needed no other excuse to abandon all wafer thin hope of England progressing any further in the competition, along with my rapidly diminishing support. To be honest, that was my own turn to experience great relief and self-reckoning.

I have to admit that throughout the game against Slovenia, I was drawing the following piece, knowing that if it wouldn't be relevant immediately after that particular game, that it almost certainly would be at some point during the following week. And so it was.

I won't pretend that I didn't enjoy its creation, far more than the game itself, and I do hope my good English friends will forgive me for it.

How was it for you... ?

Now that new UK Chancellor, George Osborne's first Budget has had a little time to bed in, what's the verdict from those of you who live upon these Sceptred Isles? Pleasure or pain...?

More Major...

I've had a number of requests which I'm going to completely ignore, and post a few more John Major cartoons regardless...

Major feeds German Chancellor Helmut Kohl British beef at Downing Street visit in an effort to persuade him to support the lifting of the worldwide British beef ban. It didn't work. He ate the beef, then beefed about being put on the spot...

New Year's Eve, 1996. Plotting...




Desperate measures...




Going, going...




...Gone!

Good old John Major!

Well, to be honest, not many people were saying that in Scotland back in the mid 90's when I first started drawing editorial cartoons for the Daily Record. In fact, there was only me and about five others who'd openly declare it, but I did so with gusto, and on a daily basis.

My reasons for doing so were never due to any political alignment with the former Tory leader or his party however. Any warmth I had for any of them was purely down to the fertile feeding grounds they cultivated for me and my fellow political cartoonists in Scotland, where they were reviled to such an extent that the well of inspiration positively overflowed for guys like me. I dearly loved them for that!

I recall vividly a conversation with the deputy editor of the Record, my left wing paymasters, as it became clear the Tories' days were finally numbered throughout the UK, and Scotland looked like it would at long last get the government it had voted for (how right and how wrong we were, simultaneously). I said it in jest, but it was a very real fear...

"If New Labour win the election, then scrap the Monarchy, and Gazza leaves Glasgow Rangers, I'll have bugger all left to draw."

I needn't have feared as it turned out, but that's for another time. For now, here's just one little bit of fun I had with poor Mr Major in his dying Prime Ministerial days (more later)...

The Heart Of The Matter...

If men could have babies...

Taking a Liberty...

I read the other day that Tony Blair has been awarded a Liberty medal (plus $100,000, which he is generously donating to two charities - the Tony Blair Faith Foundation and the Tony Blair Africa Governance Initiative), for "bringing liberty to people around the world". The medal is to be presented to him in an official ceremony by his old mucker, Bill Clinton.

I make no further comment, but it does give me an excuse to resurrect the following old political cartoon I did for the Daily Record, when the two then-World-leaders met in a summit at the height of the Monica Lewinsky Scandal.

With a few white hairs added, the cartoon might equally well apply to this latest news, only with the speech bubble tails changed around, and any stains more reddish in nature...

On a lighter note...

The lesson for today is, "Let sleeping cardboard boxes lie.".

Otherwise, you may just stumble across a newspaper clipping in your garage from over 30 years ago that makes you cringe, and your family fall about in utter hysterics.

Against my better judgement, and for any UK comic historians out there, I've decided to share. Just this once. Let's play 'Spot The Office Junior'...

Okay, let's not. I'm the really cute one on the left, 19 years old, and about nine and a half stone (look at that 30" waist! - I played a lot of sports back then). Next is current Beano Editor, Alan Digby, who will no doubt never speak to me again. The young Paul McCartney lookalike is Andy Sturrock, who (I seem to recall) eventually left comic writing behind to take up mussel fishing in the Western Isles. Then there's little Kirsten, whom it is hoped survived the ordeal with no major psychological trauma affecting her adult life. Sitting on the desk is Dave Donaldson, then chief sub editor of The Beano, but who went on to create the Nutty comic with a little help from yours truly. And the imposing figure on the right was, of course, Beano Editor, Harry Cramond, my first boss, and a huge influence on all that was to follow for me.

The door just behind Harry led into the Topper office, but it was permanently locked, and you had to go the long way round if you wanted to blow raspberries at their staff. You can clearly see our half-hearted attempt to cover up the dartboard for the photographer, and my desk was just to the left of where I'm standing. There were pages and pages of original artwork scattered upon every desk, a very different scene to the virtually paperless, computer-strewn offices of now. Happy days!