Does God exist?

Evidence for the non-existence of a God or any similar form of benevolent higher power

If God existed, when the inspectors checked the tickets on the train they'd look at how much the ticket had cost you, tut and say, "it's bloody shameful isn't it? I can only apologise".

Evidence for the existence of God or any similar form of benevolent higher power

The song Space Oddity by David Bowie.

Everything else is still firmly filed under "grey areas", I'm afraid.

Government Ministers with a soul patch

The Rt. Hon. Eric Pickles MP, Secretary of State for Communities and Local Government

The Rt. Hon. Michael Gove MP, Secretary of State for Education

The Rt. Hon. Jeremy Hunt MP, Secretary of State for Health

The Rt. Hon. George Osborne MP, Chancellor of the Exchequer, Second Lord of the Treasury

The Rt. Hon. David Cameron MP, Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, First Lord of the Treasury
and Minister for the Civil Service

Compelling television

I've had an idea for a television series. I think it could prove to be one of the great spectacles of our time. It would be entertaining, provocative, must-see viewing for the general public as well as ticking all kinds of favourable boxes with television folk. Put simply, my idea is this: people with the same surnames as famous serial killers recreate their namesake's crimes.

It's easy to be dismissive of ideas as pungently brilliant as this one, but give it a little thought and the full spectacle of this programme should start to crystallise in your mind. This isn't just straightforward television designed to shock and appal, or to subtly reduce the number of immigrants and poor people in a way that would no doubt find favour within certain departments of our beloved government. This programme would instead run the full gamut of emotions and experiences craved by the increasingly sophisticated and choosy television viewer of the digital age.

Fred and Rose:
been there, done that

For a start, it would be a gritty psychological study. These people may not even want to do these crimes. They are only doing so because they are being filmed for television. The moral, emotional and psychological cost would be documented with video diaries and analysis by specialists.

Then, there's the educational aspect. Serial killers pock mark our history and any society's shared experience of life. We are fascinated by them and appalled by them in equal measure. They are us but different from us. Like gorillas. Each featured serial killer's story would be explained in both historical and sociological detail, to try and give the viewer a rounded view of the individual pathology as well as contextualising their actions within the time in which they lived.

The crimes themselves would, of course, be the main feature. These would be re-enacted as faithfully to the original deeds as is possible. They would be shocking, enthralling television. A genuine event with cultural resonances to be felt like ripples by the generations to come. Like the Coronation, but with an increased chance that someone involved might have earned it.

These would then be accompanied by sequences explaining how the evidence was disposed of and how the perpetrators will try and evade justice in order to kill again.

Because the police will not be party to these goings on. While this does rather hinder the possibility of there being a second series, the advantage in terms of narrative tension far exceeds its pitfalls. A television crew would be placed at the appropriate police force's headquarters under the aegis of making a fly-on-the-wall documentary series. From here we will see the investigation from both sides. As viewers, we'd be both the pursuer and the pursued. It would be above and beyond every thrilling finale or cliffhanger ending ever seen on television before.

Samuel and Timothy: lives about
to become complicated?

Of course, the exciting part would be in the casting. Celebrities with the same surname as famous serial killers would of course be attractive: father and son actors Timothy and Samuel West could recreate the crimes of Fred and Rosemary West, or the Green Party MP for Brighton Pavilion Caroline Lucas could live the life of the matricidal one-eyed drifter Henry Lee Lucas. Steve Wright could be Steve Wright. But there's just as much value in letting members of the public be the protagonist (or antagonist - the programme would never be predictable). Indeed, there's even the delicious possibility that, in the cases of serial killers with rare or unusual surnames, that members of their own family would have to step in and fill the breach.

Television as demanding, ambiguous and real as this programme - working title "Naughty Namesakes" - comes along perhaps once in a lifetime. Innovative, enervative television. It would make Breaking Bad look like King Rollo.

A moustache for Roger

Roger Federer: cold top lip?

Can Roger Federer do it?

The greatest tennis player of all time is after a record eighth Wimbledon Men's Singles title this year and most learned commentators seem to be of the opinion that if he manages it, it will be his greatest achievement at the All-England Club to date.

This is due to a quirk of the ranking system: Rafael Nadal has spent much of the past 12 months with his knee elevated somewhere on a fishing boat in Mallorca recovering from leg surgery and, as such, is only the number 5 ranked player in the world. This means that, going by seeding alone, to win an OctoWimbledon Federer's path saw him having to beat Nadal in the quarter-final, Andy Murray in the semi and world number 1 Novak Djokovic in the final. An incredible challenge.

Of course, in sport things are wont to change. Yesterday the bookmakers had Federer out at 7-1 to win the tournament. I rather suspect his odds will be somewhat shorter this morning. The headline news was that an out-of-sorts Rafael Nadal fell at the first hurdle to an inspired Steve Darcis in straight sets, but equally noteworthy in my book was the thunderous masterclass delivered by Federer on Centre Court earlier in the day. Up against Victor Hanescu, the Romanian player who is ranked the 48th best tennis player currently on Earth, Federer rolled back the years, playing shots of power, accuracy, grace and invention. His service, meanwhile, peppered the lines of the box, giving his opponent no realistic chance at all. It was a privilege to watch.

But there's still something missing. The answer, nevertheless, is close at hand. Sat in the Royal Box watching, in fact: it was Roger's dad Robert Federer, the silver fox in a smart suit, sporting his trademark moustache. It was a strong look. Roger is definitely a chip off the old block as far as his appearance is concerned - he and his father look very alike. And then it struck me.

The last few percent of any sporting success are always in the mind. That little spark of self-belief and confidence that can carry one competitor over and above another competing at an identical physical level. Roger Federer's path to history remains fraught with huge challenges, but I believe Roger Federer with a moustache would be unflappable and, more significantly, unstoppable.

I have to admit that I would like Andy Murray, the plucky Brit with a heart of gold, to win Wimbledon this year. But I can never begrudge Roger Federer another title at The Championships, he is a magnificent sportsman and my admiration for him grows exponentially. If it came to it, I'd have to cheer on Andy Murray in a Murray-Federer semi-final. But a moustachioed Federer? No contest.

Now, I am a reasonable man. I am, it's true, demanding that Roger Federer grow a moustache, but that is not to say that I will not be giving the great man options. Five options, in fact. Which style he decides to go with is up to him (or, indeed, you - democracy could well win through if you would like to leave a comment with your preference). But nature and reason and all the gods in their heavens have surely spoken: Roger Federer must surely grow a moustache. And then we'll have world peace.

ROGER FEDERER MUST GROW A MOUSTACHE

Option 1: Robert Federer Junior

Simple, classic lines. Will make his father proud all over again.

Option 2: Easy Rider

Is it hot as hell in here, or is it me?

Option 3: Terry-Thomas

I say!

Option 4: Freddie Boswell

Lilo Lil = tart

Option 5: Ron Mael

This just made my soft parts go hard and my hard parts go soft.

Come on Roger, do it for all of us.

(You can follow my campaign in real time on Twitter when I remember, just watch out for the #RogerFedererMoustache hashtag.)

The powerful influence that American involvement the Vietnam War had on the history of popular music

America invented popular music. It was on a Tuesday. The entire history of pop can be traced back to traditional American music at the turn of the 20th Century. However, if you read any learned books of learned history, you could be hard-pressed to guess that this is the case. This is all because of The Beatles, who by a trick of fate were born in Liverpool, England instead of Liverpool, Ohio and therefore were not required to fight in the Vietnam war in the 1960s.

That's right, Britain stole a march on popular music in the decade that proved to be the most pivotal in the history of the genre and has scarcely relinquished its primacy ever since. American musicians could very easily have pushed the limits of their creativity just as far as their British contemporaries but as soon as they got a groove going they were legally obligated to go and rain hot death on the Viet Cong. It's hard to reinvent rock 'n' roll music when the hot breath of the American Senate is continually on the back of your neck, noisily wondering why it is that, instead of going electric, you're not busy killing Charlie.

I am always reminded of this state of affairs when I listen to Friends by The Beach Boys, an album which I love. In the title song, there is a line: "I talked your folks out of making you cut off your hair", which I have always believed must be a veiled reference to the continuing US involvement in the Far Eastern conflict. Indeed, I think it could even refer to the youngest of The Beach Boys' Wilson brothers, Carl.

"We've been friends now for so many years, brb raining ideological death war on innocent Asian families"

Carl Wilson was drafted into the US Army aged 20 in 1967 but applied for deferment on the grounds of conscientious objection. After a lengthy battle through the courts, the US Government agreed that Wilson would not have to fight overseas as long as he performed free concerts for hospitals and prisons in lieu of national service.

Fans of The Beach Boys will know that this was a pivotal year in the history of the group. The year before the band had released their seminal Pet Sounds album and headed into 1967 in a creative summit duel with their great contemporaries The Beatles to see who could redefine the terms of pop music forever first. Of course, we now all know that The Beatles released Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band in June of that year while The Beach Boys spellbinding and ambitious Smile project collapsed in a fug of mental health problems (Brian Wilson) and in-fighting within the band (Mike Love). They were never really the same force again, especially after the patchy and disappointing Smiley Smile was released that September - a watered down and unfinished collection of what had promised to be the most remarkable songs ever committed to tape.

Having a Sword of Damocles hanging over the continued involvement in the group's activities of one of their number was, of course, by no means the be-all and end-all of what caused the breakdown of the group's position at the absolute vanguard of the pop movement. But there's little doubt in my mind that it would not have helped. Carl Wilson's influence within The Beach Boys was growing rapidly. By 1968 he would be their de facto  leader as big brother Brian drifted off into a world of his own. The idea of this rather gentle soul possibly having to go and destroy world communism was anathema to everyone concerned.

But, and here's the key thing, I can't help but feel that it would actually have been brilliant. For a start, it would have won The Beach Boys a whole new legion of more mature fans and other veterans of foreign wars, flushed with admiration that finally one of these floppy-haired, lily-livered rock 'n' rollers had finally had the balls to stand up to Marx. This could not have served the group badly: their output up to that stage was exceptional enough that any new listener would surely be converted into a fan and, therefore, record sales.

Then there would be the immeasurable impact of Wilson's return to the fold, both from the point of view of publicity but also in terms of his new life experiences informing all sorts of new directions for the band's sound. George Harrison playing sitar with Ravi Shankar would suddenly seem old hat, compared with the sprinkling of genuine Laotian folk music now peppering The Beach Boys albums. Perhaps they could even have roped Lon Nol in on bongos. I can't be the only Beach Boys fan who would absolutely have relished the idea of a now one-legged Carl Wilson, wearing an eyepatch, singing a furious song about the 4 Vietnamese soldiers he bayonetted never solved anything.

Of course, it could just be that they had a friend whose parents wanted them to get a haircut but they talked them out of it.

A little housekeeping

Fans of me would probably already be aware of this but I believe it is possible that there may well be people who are fans of me and also completely bewildered, so here goes: Be sure to add sadclownillustration.blogspot.co.uk to your bookmarks and readers. It's packed to the gunnels with piping hot me on a daily basis.

Here you will find news about NEW AMAZING PRODUCTS at the Sad Clown Etsy store which I naturally hope you will all purchase in your droves, but as of this week you will also find a TOPICAL DAILY DOODLE from Monday to Friday. These are corruscatingly up-to-the-minute satirical sideswipes and NOT TO BE MISSED! Just observe Tuesday's blistering assault for evidence:

The continuing adventures of Jack the Ripper

Click the picture to make it go bigger

The past as seen from the future

Mrs. Hudson's dildo drawer

As I see it, it would have been very difficult for Doctor J.H. Watson to have a wank. An awful lot of of the speculation about the sexual mechanics of the living arrangements of Doctor Watson and his companion Sherlock Holmes has been dedicated to expanding the theory that they must have been bummers. I've never really understood why this should be. For a start, neither Holmes or Watson are homosexual gentlemen. For one thing, Doctor Watson spent a considerable portion of the early stories married to a woman whose name was Mrs. Watson, and I suspect that Holmes is asexual, perhaps as a function of a his undiagnosed Asperger's Syndrome.

It's a sad reflection on how far society still has to go, to be honest. This line of reasoning, endorsed by generations of Daily Mail columnists, goes: The genitalia of any two men living together will as surely converge as their female counterparts' menstrual cycles, all gay men are opportunistic bottom rapists and Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson are two men who live together. It's a piece of glaringly inconsequential, retrograde, purience and one that has blinded generations of readers from giving enough thought to the real issue at stake. Which is, that it would have been very difficult for Doctor J.H. Watson to have a wank.

Sherlock Holmes: self abuse ninja

I'm unsure as to whether or not Sherlock Holmes would wank. I believe that there's every chance that he would not. As a creature of pure reason and logic, he may understand why people sometimes feel the need to wrangle out some knuckle children, but I'm not sure that he would necessarily be in touch with the necessary types of basic biological urge as the average man in the street. Or of the average man wanking in the street.

If Holmes was not a masturbator, it's a great loss to the culture. Because I believe he would have been truly outstanding, a self-abuse ninja. No locking the bathroom door for a solid, sweating, grunting, farting hour for Holmes; no wiping his wonger on the curtains. If Holmes knocked one out, it's fair to assume it would be done with such surreptitiousness and stealth that he could probably do it in plain view and no-one be any the wiser.

No so with Doctor Watson. Even people like us, the great unwashed, the people without any exceptional gifts in the field of deductive reasoning, even we are occasionally aware that someone in our vicinity is shaking hands with the unemployed. So quite what it must have been like for Doctor Watson, one can only surmise. Sherlock Holmes once deduced that Watson had decided to not invest in South African futures from a small smear of billiard chalk on his friend and colleague's hand alone, so there's very little doubt that he would be quite aware when Watson had been performing the old Low Five. Not for him the conventional signs: the locked door, the bead of sweat on the brow, muffled cries of "oh mercy" or gobbets of jilter on the knee. Holmes would know exactly when, where and why you had last had your special sock out.

It's things like that which would completely undermine your sense of self.

John H. Watson M.D. - knackers like
two tins of Fussell's Milk

Of course, if Sherlock Holmes did occasionally feel the need to clear the custard, Doctor Watson would, in theory at least, be ideally placed to be able to call him on it. As a medical doctor, he would know better than most the physiological signs to watch out for as soon as he suspected that the violin playing behind closed doors had stopped for a suspiciously long time. However, I think that Watson's mind would be so exercised with the sure knowledge that his friend knew exactly when he'd last evacuated (as well as trying to think up a foolproof way of getting away with it the next time) that there'd not be sufficient time, energy or inclination remaining to try and call the world's greatest detective on a visit to Mistress Palm and her five lovely daughters.

It's hard to imagine that the kind of hierarchy that this would create within their domestic lives could ever serve their friendship well, so I can only assume that - given the well-documented levels of security and satisfaction that both parties enjoyed - Holmes' discretion knew no bounds. Which is probably for the best, for only then might Watson - completely at ease, off his guard and casually sneaking off with the fruit bowl - be ripe to the killer, "lemon entry, my dear Watson?" zinger.

Obviously, they might just have been bummers.

Occam's Razor

Top 100 disaster movies: Titanic

Titanic (1997)

It's difficult to believe that Titanic is nearly 16 years old and therefore legally able to have sexual intercourse in the United Kingdom. Come the big day, I suspect that Titanic will most likely choose itself as its partner. It had that way about it, parping its own funnel. But then, films did that more back then. I think it would be hard to describe to someone too young to have been there exactly the kind of feverish hype that surrounded Titanic's release. Back then, we all thought it was real and screamed when things came towards the screen, of course. But I remember that I went to see it some time in the spring of 1998 in Brighton and the cinema was standing room only, something I have never experienced before or since. By the end of the seventeen hour long film, people who had sat right down at the front were walking out of the screening in the shape of swastikas, having done irreparable damage to their spines.

At the time I was obviously rather taken up with the hype of the whole film because I thought it was wonderful. I realise now of course that I had been played by the Hollywood system to a large degree. However, it would be wrong  - an understandable backlash against corporate propagandising of my malleable 18-year old brain - to claim that Titanic is not a film without quality. It's perhaps not our generation's Citizen Kane but then again, no ocean liners sink in Citizen Kane so its probably best to declare a score-draw on that front.

It's a hard film to watch again. This is not so much due to the poignancy of the story or the strength of the memories of my fallow youth, and more to do with the fact that it's really long. I would estimate that it must be at least six hours, although having just checked on Wikipedia I have discovered that the actual running time is 3 hours 14 minutes. And Leonardo Di Caprio is only dead for about fifteen of them.

Harsh again. My distaste for Leonardo Di Caprio is again forged by those times, in the heady days of the end of the last century, when he was being sold as our generation's Valentino. Di Caprio has gone on to be a very impressive, likable and versatile film actor, a lot of whose work I have enjoyed. And yet, upon seeing his name in the credits I still get the twitch. Titanic's psychological impact on me runs deep. As DEEP AS THE ATLANTIC OCEAN? Probably not.

Kate Winslet in Titanic: standing next to a peculiarly inaccurate mirror

My problem with Titanic is that, like many movies of the disaster genre, it is basically a tired old romantic potboiler, given a gravitas it perhaps hasn't earned by the inevitability of the lovers' demise. As if someone had made a porno based on John and Jackie Kennedy's last trip to Texas (which, incidentally, would probably be a better film). Titanic, of course, also dips deep into the old upstairs-downstairs class-based shenanigans so beloved by insane British people.

Treasure hunters (oceanographic explorers? well-equipped aquatic thieves?) find a safe in the ruins of the RMS Titanic. When it is opened, they find a jewel as big as your fist and a nudey charcoal sketch of a lady. It turns out that its subject is still alive, aged 208 and living in the United States. She is flown out to the explorer's ship where she tells the story of her trip on the doomed liner. It's a story of high-society, arranged marriages and ludicrous amounts of privilege. But nevertheless, they can all be shot through by shagging an Irish ragamuffin, on the boat as a third-class passenger having won his ticket in a dockside poker game and in the right place at the right time to prevent Little Miss Snooty from jumping to her death in a fit of wealthy pique.

And there you go. There's the trouble. The story of the fateful maiden voyage of RMS Titanic will be told for as long as there are humans to tell it. It is poignant enough, and tragic enough, without having to go all macro and examine just one or two sets of relationships. As far as the film goes, it tells the nuts and bolts story well: the special effects which were at the time completely groundbreaking in terms of their scope and their cost still hold up well and it remains very much the landmark for any future films of this kind. Quite whether the films that come after it need to so slavishly follow the generic tradition of doomed love is another matter, but of course they will and another part of us will die inside.

I think a better ending would have been that they discovered that Rose's amour from that night had not perished in the Atlantic as she had thought but was later saved by a passing boat. And yes, we've found him and brought him out to the ship. He's 206 years old but he can still get a hardon, it's Jack. A round of applause and a jokey reference to the fact he's off to ride her sideways would have made the wheelbarrow-load of Academy Awards seem so much more richly deserved.

I give Titanic SIX out of ten disaster points.

Top 100 Disaster Movies: By Dawn's Early Light

By Dawn's Early Light (1990)

If I were to make a nuclear war film, I would call it Zugzwang. This is because I am more intellectual than you. In the game of chess (oh yes, I'm going there), there will occasionally be times where one player cannot possibly do anything but harm their position but are nevertheless compelled to make a move. Having to make a move although it will be ultimately disadvantageous to you seems to me to be the defining quality of any nuclear conflict.

During the breakup of the Soviet Union, a rogue group of separatists have gotten hold of a nuclear missile and with some malice, launched it from a NATO base in Turkey towards the Ukrainian city of Donetsk. This sets all the Soviet-era nuclear response protocols - some of them completely automated, mind you - into action, meaning that there is an immediate and unstoppable retaliatory response on targets in the United States. The American President, who for some reason is Martin Landau, thought that the world was well and truly past all of this shit and is forced into taking countermeasures when an atomic bomb explodes in Washington.

During his subsequent flight out of the danger area, another bomb explodes too close to the helicopter, causing it to crash and blinding the President. With the commander-in-chief presumed dead, the American military assume control of the situation, cunningly finding the country's most old-fashioned and hawkish gun-totin', red-hatin' elected representative to assume political control and give full legitimacy to Rip Torn's view that the best thing to do now would be to bomb the entire USSR out of physical existence.

The President, found in a wood and taken to a rescue centre, must now desperately try and resume control of the situation by telephone alone, before everything is lost. Ultimately he manages to win over a hard-bitten military commander, played by James Earl Jones, whose airborn military control centre is flown into Air Force One before any really big buttons can be pressed.

James Earl Jones in By Dawn's Early Light: a definite candidate for any no fly lists.

I thought a lot about my wretched history of dismal defeats on the chessboard as I watched By Dawn's Early Light. It is a chilling reminder of the kind of counter-intuitive moves born out of nothing more than political and military expediency that have to be taken in extremis, as well as a critique of the dangers of intransigence. But mainly, I thought about how James Earl Jones was also on the B52 bomber that sneaks through Soviet defences to drop its payload in the film Doctor Strangelove. What with that, this and Darth Vader, it's a wonder that anyone allows the man to leave the ground at all, so bleak are the consequences of his being at altitude.

By Dawn's Early Light is an arresting watch and one which is still relevant over twenty years later. I give it SEVEN out of ten disaster points.

Blue-arsed monkey

Hello. Updates have been sporadic of frequency and patchy of quality of late, which is largely because I have been visited by a particularly vicious black dog. I know, boo-fucking-hoo. Anyway, here's something to just keep this place ticking over. It's the only thing I drew yesterday afternoon that didn't end up in the bin, and so comes with that guarantee of satisfaction at least.

The busy world of assassination pictures

I want to share three of my all-time favourite pictures with you. I think they are magnificent, not only because of the exceptional technique and draughtsmanship they exhibit but also for what they represent and the significance of the event that each depicts.

The assassination of Abraham Lincoln, 14th April 1865

The assassination of James Garfield, 2nd July 1881

The assassination of William McKinley, 6th September 1901

They are remarkable things, aren't they? Each powerful in its own right, pregnant with the drama of one of those rare occasions where history definitively changed over the course of a moment. Sadly, aside from the picture of the shooting of William McKinley (by which point the United States was averaging a Presidential assassination just under every 20 years, a poor batting average by anybody's standards) which is by T. Dart-Walker, I do not know the identities of the other two artists. Such was the way of it in the days when photography was a luxurious plaything.

The sharp-brained among you will, of course, realise that there's something incomplete about this series. Because to the best of my knowledge, there is no such image of the fourth Presidential assassination in the United States, that of John Kennedy on 22nd November 1963. By then, celluloid had assumed its primacy over the pencil or the engraving, a position which it shows little sign of relinquishing any time soon.

What we are left with instead, of course, is the silent 8mm cinefilm taken by Abraham Zapruder in Dallas that day. There's always a witness to history, argued the Naudet brothers, who inadvertently captured the initial aeroplane strike in New York City on 11th September 2001. Zapruder is perhaps the most famous example of this truism. But oddly, a moving record of the event has proved so much more equivocal than any of these three artist's impressions. Perhaps it is by virtue of the nature of the shooting, by long-distance sniper rather than by the up-close-and-personal approach favoured by John Wilkes Booth, Charles Guiteau or Leon Czolgosz. But common sense states that the more data is available, the easier it should be to draw conclusions from it. The Zapruder film has, in the past fifty years, been used as sure proof of almost every theory, conceivable or otherwise, relating to the Kennedy assassination. It's a peculiar state of affairs.

But it was more from the point of view of completism, however, than in the spirit of providing any definitive proof, that I decided that I needed to finish the set. So today I am proud to unveil the first ever artistic impression of those terrible events in Dallas half a century ago this November. Will it stand the test of time in the same way as the others? Only history can tell.

The assassination of John Kennedy, 22nd November 1963. (Click for bigger)

In order to decide the best one at something inexplicable to me

There have been 32 Super Bowls during my lifetime and I have watched none of them. The first one was on January 25th 1981 and was called Super Bowl XV. This made me feel old until I remembered that America is particularly historically deprived. It turns out that the first Super Bowl did not happen until 1967, which is almost 1968. Super Bowl XV was held five days after the inauguration of Ronald Reagan as the 40th President of the United States, an event so unlikely I still can't believe it happened. Five days, too, after the release of the American hostages in Iran. The patriotic fervour obviously had a positive effect on the Oakland Raiders, who beat the Philadelphia Eagles 27-10. Both teams celebrated by not getting to another Super Bowl until the mid-2000s. Neither have won it since. Losers.

This is an American Football. It is the wrong shape,
but not for playing American Football with

Today's Super Bowl is called Super Bowl XLVII, which is Super Bowl 47 in normal. It is between the Baltimore Ravens, who are from Baltimore and the San Francisco 49ers who are from San Francisco and are also a sexual position. Five days ago North Korea launched a rocket for no particularly good reason and Ronald Reagan continued to be deceased, as he has been every day consecutively since June 5th 2004.

The American hostages returning from Iran: that's doing it a bit brown

But the most seismic event about Super Bowl XLVII is that I am going to watch it and finally find out what all the fuss is about. I hope that Beyoncé doesn't mime the half-time show. Or else they'll set OJ Simpson on her. And so tonight on my blog you will be able to join me as I try and understand what the hell is going on. Will one of the teams do it? Or will there be a penalty shoot-out? This will also be my first ever game of American Football, so everything is up for grabs. Will American Football turn out to be better or worse than Rugby League? This is a rhetorical question. No sport is worse than Rugby League.

---

23.17 I have just emerged from what can only be described as a tactical disco nap and now I am READY TO GO.

23.19 What the hell is going on?

23.20 Apropos of nothing, this is day three of my 28-day vegetarian food-only diet. The food is nice but I am farting like a horse. Like a HORSE.

23.23 Perhaps this is why soccer has taken such a long time to get a foothold in the United States: the FA Cup final doesn't feature enough emotionally exploitative jingoistic singalongs.

23.24 Presumably some sort of sporting event is going to break out at any moment.

23.26 There is a spirited discussion of the talents of Baltimore's Ray Lewis which represents perhaps the most glowing assessment of any sportsman's ability I have heard in cases where they could easily be replaced by a side of beef, or an oak dresser.

23.30 OK, consider this the one-off, catch-all post regarding the way American sport serves television, whereas European sport is served by television. There. I said it.

23.32 Heavens, someone just kicked a ball. Now they're going to start beating up on each other.

23.33 They're going to have to replay the first down because of an illegal formation. Apparently. This is going to be a long night.

23.35 San Francisco are the red ones, right? This is an important tactical choice.

23.38 DRAMA. The Baltimore quarterback (Bauterback) just chucked the ball miles up the field. This could prove significant.

23.40 Offside. Will we sports fans ever be free?

23.41 TOUCHDOWN! Oh my word. It's my first ever touchdown. What an event. As the US networks celebrate with a hearty 20-minute commercial break, I get to reflect on Baltimore's quarterback and dashing number 5 shirt Joe Flacco who is chucking the ball about with some gusto. This time a man who is the biggest man I have ever seen caught it on some grass which is for some reason blue. Then the kicking man converted it, just like in a good old-fashioned rugger. It is Baltimore 7-0 San Francisco.

23.44 I could really go for some football now. That touchdown has got the blood running to my shoulder. How ironic that it should also have triggered a full-on infomercial marathon. The trouble with watching the Super Bowl on the BBC is that you can't possibly expect to have the same experience as viewers in the US. Advertisers invest so heavily in their Super Bowl commercials that they are almost a part of the game.

23.47 Football has started again. San Francisco provide an immediate piece of excitement with one of their players getting hold of the ball and legging it a full nineteen yards before he is flattened by a defender the size of a tree.

23.49 This game is beginning to remind me a lot of proper football, in that there is clearly a level of tactical nous and refinement at work here, but it is taking place at a level that goes right over my head. What I'm seeing on the field is total chaos. It's almost reassuring.

23.51 One innovation I would like to see in European sport is the way there are two completely different teams for if you're attacking or if you're defending. But on the flip-side, it would be deeply amusing to me to see all of the reedy sophisticated Pythagorian ball-players to also have to do all the defending, or the colossal lunatic fatties have to try and extrapolate a 45-yard pass to a moving target.

23.54 Field goal! San Francisco bum up a chance for a touchdown when their big fat player drops it in the end zone, but make up for it thanks to the piston-like boot of Jimmy Kickpuncher. Now in commercials. I am rapidly discovering that for the true gridiron purist, the worst thing that could possibly happen is that either side score. Because it means no more football for 5-10 minutes. Ho-hum. Baltimore 7-3 San Francisco.

00.01 The most significant thing in the build up to this match is that the teams are coached by two brothers. If only their parents had taught them the importance of sharing, none of this would be happening.

00.04 The Baltimore number 82 has preposterous hair. He reminds me a little of The Predator, who would almost certainly be a good American Football player.

00.06 I keep thinking about Charlie Brown.

00.07 According to the BBC studio analyst, football often looks like a game of chess. Which poses a series of questions.

00.08 If he'd said Twister, I'd be more inclined to believe him.

00.09 We're back under way! The startling innovation here is that they take shorter commercial breaks for the end of a quarter than they do for either team scoring. The equivalent in football would be to take a 20 minute break every time a player scored a goal. Which is how Aston Villa defend. #satire

00.11 I've not heard anyone say "23! 48! 72! Hike! Hike! Hut Hut Hut!" yet. I feel television has misled me.

00.12 These gentlemen are enormous. San Francisco's number 23 just tried to skilfully feint to turn his man and get away up the wing. His reward was to be clattered by a defender the size of a bison and drop the ball. So possession reverts to the other team. I think Isambard Kingdom Brunel would have enjoyed American Football.

00.15 A series of slow-motion replays are celebrating this tackle with glowing praise. In any other sport he would be subject to the most harsh criticism. But which is the right reaction? I think all sports should adopt one player who is allowed to defend in the fashion of Baltimore's monolithic number 91 shirt. But having loads of them on either team does seem a bit like overkill.

00.18 It's still Baltimore 7-3 San Francisco, which is making advertisers nervous.

00.19 Quarterbacks must have arms like pistons. I've been trying to figure out how far I reckon I could throw an American Football. It is not far. And that's without 2500lbs of gristle running at me at 10 mph.

00.21 TOUCHDOWN! The line of scrimmage was only two yards from the end zone, but the Ravens quarterback didn't let this fact dissuade him from making some plays and flinging the pigskin right into this shit. It was converted, too. Baltimore 14-3 San Francisco.

00.24 I wish I could see the commercials. I reckon I would enjoy the commercials more than a British Olympic rower explaining the completely inexplicable, i.e. why he supports the San Francisco 49ers. We're back under way, making everyone question why some gridiron players have a towel hanging out the back of their trousers like a tail. In a sport where the likelihood of a helmeted assailant grabbing hold of you is reasonably high.

00.30 This is where my total lack of understanding of the sport is a major handicap. A fight broke out, necessitating official intervention. But it looked so much like the regular gameplay I'm not sure how they called it.

00.33 Idea: combination All-American Aport. The meat of the game is like gridiron, but on either goalpost there is a basketball hoop for opportunistic 2- and 3-point shots. And one player at a time is allowed to wield a baseball bat.

00.35 Baltimoreterback Joe Flacco is so good at chucking the ball miles that he's gone all the way over the end zone several times. This time, The Predator was under it, legs going away like pistons, but to no avail. It's all Baltimore at the moment, as long as I have correctly assumed that they're the ones in white shirts.

00.37 Watching some replays of an interception. The slow-motion replay is very important here, as it shows off details that you might miss in real time. Notably, that once one player has grabbed hold of another to tackle them, everyone else just dives on, regardless of what team they play for. Or if they're even playing at all. There's an Irish grandmother, half-cut on Guinness, still perched atop the scrimmage hitting someone with her umbrella.

00.42 San Francisco have a Defensive Safety called Darcel McBath. And we can only thank god for that.

00.45 Two minutes to half time. Which means it will be half time in about 15 minutes.

00.48 Mother futchdown! Joe Flacco passes the ball about as far as you can get it without employing FedEx and an optimistic receiver called Jacoby Jones who is standing in Ecuador suddenly finds himself with a ball dropping out of the sky into his lap. He recovers from this shock, picks himself up off the floor and hares it over the line. It was very exciting stuff. Let's all chug a beer! Half time in an hour! Baltimore 21-3 San Francisco. It's difficult to see San Francisco coming back here, because they are dreadful.

00.55 Predictably, San Francisco have now moved into their most meaningful spell of attacking dominance of the match so far. I love quarterbacks. In fact, David Beckham used to play for England like a quarterback, delivering finely weighted long-distance passes whilst the rest of his gristle-headed teammates ran around aimlessly.

00.58 San Francisco kick their second field goal to go into half time trailing 6 to 21. It's go time for Beyoncé. What controversy will the half time show bring this year? Men everywhere hope it's in the Janet Jackson way.

01.01 Of course, the awesome organisation, integration and choreography of American sports makes things like the Super Bowl half time show possible. It's hard to imagine the kind of abject chaos that would reign if someone decided to try a similar thing during the FA Cup final. Electrocutions. Nail gun accidents. Trades Union outrages.

01.13 Woman wearing a bin bag dances to Beyoncé records. Wait a minute! It IS Beyoncé.

01.20 Do you reckon Jay-Z is a considerate lover?

01.22 Stars In Their Eyes having finished, we're just minutes away from some more I Can't Believe It's Not Rugger.

01.32 LUDICROUS TOUCHDOWN Well I never. San Francisco kick off the second half, it's caught by Baltimore's Jacoby Jones and he just runs the entire length of the field for a touchdown. This, it seems, is a fairly rare occurence. As one might imagine it to be, considering the amount of steaming huge psychos wearing armour between the two end zones. It's Baltimore 28-6 San Francisco, whose no doubt in-depth half time team talk obviously did the trick. Maybe their players were all busy dancing back-up for Beyoncé?

01.38 Half of the lights have just gone out in the Mercedes-Benz Superdome. I'm not entirely sure whether or not this is supposed to have happened.

01.39 When they're not playing this Super Bowl, they are showing clips of old Super Bowls. It's like a Super Bowl assault on the senses. Meanwhile, it turns out that half the lights were not meant to go out. Candles are coming out.

01.42 I'm giving them until 2 to sort the lights out or else I'm going to bed. I was bewildered enough when everything was running smoothly.

01.44 What sports are there to play professionally for short-arsed scrawny Americans?

01.58 I'm tired.

02.01 The galling thing I have just realised is that there's not really much of a difference between a twenty-minute power outage and what happens when someone scores a touchdown, in terms of being a television viewer.

02.06 None of this would happen if they played this game outside and at a reasonable hour.

02.08 I am really questioning whether or not my going to bed now would represent a failure on my part or a failure on somebody else's. And, as it's past 2 a.m., whether or not I really care either way any more.

02.10 I think that, in situations like this, they should just resort to a 10 minute paintball contest.

02.12 This is still better than Rugby League.

02.15 Wacko Flacco *weeps*

02.21 Power failure.

08.01 Ah, that's better. Rumours of Far-Eastern betting syndicates be damned, as the power outage proved to be no help to the forlorn San Francisco 49ers were beaten 34-31 by the invincible (admittedly I have a very limited data set) Baltimore Ravens.

So, what do I think? Well, for a start, the need to sort their floodlights out. But beyond that, I find the stop-start nature took a little bit of getting used to. I would just start to get into the whole thing, feel a surge of excitement as one of the teams scored and think that this might well prove to be the sport for me. But then would come a break for commercials so drawn-out that by the time play restarted I would have forgotten the rules.

I didn't find the whole experience displeasing at all. In fact, I think that I could get into the whole idea. I reckon American Football viewed as a highlights package would prove to be a ceaseless thrill ride. Perhaps that's the best way for me to engage with it, though. I am a little old man and like to be in bed early, so the insurmountable obstacle in my watching future Super Bowls live will always be the time difference. Come the day I am in America on the big day, or they play the match in Swansea, I'll be straight there with a ten-quart skein of pilsner and a hat with clapping foam hands on.

Dietary recklessness

For the month of February I have decided to try and go vegetarian. Or rather, to eat no meat. I am unable to quite pinpoint what led me to make this monumental decision, although I can remember the circumstances of the day that I made it. I was flipping through the channels trying to avoid watching the commercial breaks (note to advertisers: advertising doesn't work) when I happened upon Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall making a delicious quiche with onions, cheese, greens and samphire.

I wanted to get on the outside of that. Quite why my brain took the immediate leap to trying to eat vegetarian for a month, I am not sure. However, I am a firm believer in listening to what your body tells you to do, figuring that it knows best. Perhaps there's 10lb of undigested red meat packed into my colon, desperately trying to get out. Perhaps all of that bullshit wasn't bullshit all along (it is).

Nevertheless, I am excited about it. For now, at least. I haven't eaten anything yet and I've barely even thought about steaks at all. I really enjoy cooking (plus I am awesome at it) and I think that it will make me a more creative cook. Having to think a little bit harder about meals will throw up new challenges and, hopefully, new solutions. I have only one rule: no "fake" meat. No veggie burgers, no veggie sausages, no vegetarian mince in a vegetarian lasagne. I want to see what I can do with vegetables and pulses and cheese and flour and eggs and you really don't need me to list all constituent vegetarian food types.

I have never been vegetarian before, unlike a lot of the people I know. I am very interested to see what effects it has on all manner of things, not least upon the volume and regularity of my farts. Will I crack? I hope not. Will my body thank me? I hope so. I will be trying to document some of the exciting things that happen throughout the month, even if it's just a slow descent into insanity or a series of numbers corresponding to increments on the Bristol Stool Scale.

New amazing blog: a dedicated home for Sad Clown, no less: http://sadclownillustration.blogspot.co.uk/

New for 2013

Hello again. Today I'd like to talk to you all about the world of art. And the world of finance. Specifically, the art that I have done which is for sale. At the end of last year I started an Etsy store to flog Christmas cards. This was a good idea. I also promised that in the new year, there'd be lots of new stuff available. A rash promise, I'm sure you will all agree. For starters, it meant I had to do some bloody work.

The horror of that prospect notwithstanding, here it all is. This is the first phase of the 2013 range of stuff that you can use to festoon your house. Camouflage your valuable walls to look like a child has had a go at them with a packet of bath crayons.

PRINTS

The first prints available are the following two. They are from an experimental print run of ten so that we can test the waters.

SLOTHBUSTERS - A3 digital print on 170 gsm glossy paper, £10 (+ p&p)

OVER-FAMILIAR TIGER - A3 digital print on 170 gsm glossy paper, £10 (+ p&p)

Obviously, the plan (or at least the hope) is that these will be successful and I'll be able to re-order a second print run. Come that lovely sunny day, I will also be adding the following designs to the range:

If everything by this point is going as planned, I also have a number of A4-size print designs that I can add to the store. Here are a selection of those:

from top: COW, DOG, ANGLER FISH, ELEPHANT

CARDS

I have also made a series of 145 x 145mm square greetings cards for almost every conceivable life eventuality. Well, four of them. The test prints of these cards, on recycled 350 gsm cardstock, look absolutely brilliant and should be available to buy via the store late next week.

ORIGINALS

There are already a selection of original artworks for sale on the store but I will also be adding others. Firstly, I will be making the original pictures for all the prints that you have seen available. I also have a number of bespoke pictures and paintings in the pipeline, including a giraffe canvas which is pretty sharp.

BOOKS

I'm also going to try and work out a way to produce my Animal Alphabet as a colouring book, as I have been promising for the past twelve years. If you have any suggestions as to the best way to do this, or are Ian Doring or Ian Kindersley from Doring Kindersley, please do let me know.

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Here endeth the commercial break. If you are interested in any of the above, please visit my Etsy store here: Sad Clown Illustration. You can also get in touch with me via the comments on this post or by emailing me using the link in the sidebar of this blog if you have any comments, questions, suggestions or requests. The most common request so far has been "sod off". You can also BUY any of these things by clicking on that email and dealing directly with me, in case you don't have an Etsy account and don't bally well want to get one.

By the way, if you want to stay updated with what's going on in Sad Clown world, you could do a lot worse than liking our very own Facebook page: Sad Clown Illustration.

Top 100 disaster movies: The Cassandra Crossing

The Cassandra Crossing (1976)

Oh Jesus wept it's The Cassandra Crossing. I've seen some dreary crap in my time but this one almost took the biscuit. The titular crossing in question refers to a shonky, rusty and inadequately maintained railway bridge over a deep gorge in Poland. But no-one would never have had to go across it at all had it not been for some bewildered thieves trying to break in to the World Health Organisation building in Geneva. As is typical of such a mission, they both become exposed to a pretty scabby strain of weapons-grade pneumonic plague which the US military keeps there on the hush-hush.

When the surviving crimmo tries to make an escape on a trans-continental train to Copenhagen, the US military is forced to take control of the situation in order to keep a lid on the situation. And so armed men in Hazmat suits -  one part scientists, two parts terrorist heavies - board the train to ensure that it instead heads off to an old World War II hospital facility (or, more accurately, "hospital facility") in Poland. But with it becoming clear that the sickness is not as serious as was first feared, as well as local intelligence regarding the perilousness of the Cassandra Crossing bridge, the train passengers organise themselves into a guerilla troop to try and retake control of the train.

There are two disasters for the price of one in The Cassandra Crossing, the first being the potentially lethal escape of a bacteriological warfare agent and the second (predictable spoiler alert) a train crash. So there's really no excuse for how wretchedly boring this film is. Considering that this is film pregnant with potential tragedy, it takes the largely inexplicable decision to slow play every single element that could provide any grain of excitement or interest. Instead of pus, coughing fits and vertiginous plummets into the European scenery, we get the interminable development of a variety of strands of storyline that no-one in their right mind cares about. Will Burt Lancaster successfully manage to keep the nefarious deeds of the United States government from the general public (he almost invariably will)? Will esteemed doctor Richard Harris rekindle his romance with his twice-wife author Sophia Loren (no-one cares)? Can holocaust survivor Lee Strasberg face spending any more time at a secret facility in Poland (it's unlikely, let's be honest)? Will Ava Gardner get a shag (it's not looking good, Ava)? And will OJ Simpson successfully complete his undercover mission for the FBI and bring arms dealer Martin Sheen to book (nope)?

OJ Simpson in The Cassandra Crossing: not really a vicar, what else could this man possibly by lying about?

When the disasters finally do occur, they are all much more minor than they might have been with far too few of the desperately dreary dramatis personae perishing in them for my tastes. Which was a double kick in the teeth, if I'm being frank with you. There's so much potential here, you see - all of which that The Cassandra Crossing desperately fails to live up to with flying colours. Even looking past the all-star cast that is on display, there are two explosive and exciting key plot points that are underplayed to such a degree that the end result is barely a disaster movie at all - rather, it's more like a torpid romantic thriller which bores everybody to tears. As such, I can't recommend watching this film to anyone, on any level. It fails as a disaster movie, it fails as a thriller and it failed to engage with me as a drama. It's the longest 129 minutes you could ever wish to spend. Perhaps that's its intended audience - wrongly accused people spending their final day on death row.

I give The Cassandra Crossing a dismal THREE out of ten disaster points.

An elephant eating a bun

Top 100 disaster movies: Atomic Train

Atomic Train (1999)

If there's one thing that watching lots of disaster movies has taught me, it's that there's nothing like a nuclear explosion to bring a family together. Provided that none of the family's hair is on fire and their hand has grafted onto the side of a passing milk float in the heat. None of this happens in Atomic Train, however, and so the family unit comes out stronger than ever before, up until their teeth fall out or the sudden, unexpected nosebleeds. Previously want-away teenage daughters stop trying to frisbee their vagina at any passing male to own any form of vehicular conveyance, whilst their sprout-faced younger brothers get a new-found respect for their old man as well as a timely reminder of the things in life that are really important.

The marital bond, too, is strengthened immeasurably. At the beginning of the film, its key protagonist is estranged from his wife, who now prefers the attentions (i.e. cock) of a swarthy police officer. But there's nothing like a bit of trauma to make people re-evaluate their priorities. Plus there is now the undeniable bonus that the massive doses of radiation to which each has been exposed means its very likely that both parties will be rendered completely sterile, eliminating the danger of any unwanted progeny from the dirty, filthy, radioactive monkeysex that will almost certainly ensue.

Atomic Train is a parable for our times. It warns that in the post-Cold War age, there is as much danger from The Bomb falling foul of one of humanity's baser urges than there is any organised or concerted government military action. In this case, the all-too-human failing that brings about the crisis is GREED. It's one of the seven deadly sins, although when they were originally being written by wise Hebrew elders, it's unlikely that they would have envisioned of the chain of events essayed in Atomic Train.

A hazardous waste disposal company has somehow been given an ex-Soviet nuclear bomb to get rid of. Whilst there's no doubting that a nuclear bomb counts as hazardous, one has to seriously question whether or not its erstwhile owners has really found the right company to dispose of it. Maybe they were at the front of the Yellow Pages? Either way, the company agree to do it on the cheap and on the quiet. The amount of paperwork you need to complete to legally decommission a nuclear device is prohibitive, and this is why so many old Soviet nukes festoon council tips, in spite of the careful signposting to discourage it. And besides, what's the worst that could happen?

Atomic Train is a film that answers this question. The worst that could happen, in fact, is that the train transporting its cargo of toxic industrial waste (plus one sneaky ex-Soviet nuclear bomb, an old fridge, two rusty pram shells and a badly soiled mattress) could suffer brake failure and become an unstoppable projectile on collision course with a major urban conurbation, in this instance the city of Denver, Colorado. Efforts to stop the train prove continually in vain, despite the best efforts of National Transportation Safety Board officer Rob Lowe, who (almost literally) parachutes himself into the situation in that brave and admirable (i.e. foolhardy) way that no-one actually ever actually does unless they're on the clock.

Atomic Train: Rob Lowe's attempts to save the world and is relentlessly unsuccessful, it's just like real life

The decision is eventually taken to derail the train, whereupon the nuclear device is discovered in amongst a large cargo of unstable sodium. Once a well-meaning firefighting helicopter come by and waterbomb the area, it immediately becomes clear that the bomb disposal teams' wives are going to be claiming on their life insurance policies. The bomb explodes, leaving Denver in tatters but family groups everywhere reminded of the power of love, which conquers all. Or almost all. Tell it to the people who've had their head melted, or their dog buried under the rubble of their house. Greed actually conquered all. There's little positivity to be had.

A lot of reviews of Atomic Train choose to focus on its many, varied plot flaws and inconsistencies. I don't see any reason to do this. Taken at face value, there's already sufficient material to make the whole experience wretched and dreadful. The whole thing is so long drawn out that you start to wonder if there's ever going to be a disaster at all in this disaster movie. By the time there is one, it seems so rushed as to have been almost tacked on. And for all the emphasis on the familial storyline, there's little attention given to any greater, wider, emotional issues. Atomic Train is diverting, but only just. I may be old fashioned, but you shouldn't be actively seeking a nuclear explosion to happen in a film just to pep things up a bit. I give Atomic Train a feeble THREE out of ten disaster points.