What The Hell, Boy!

Actually That's Me Cheating Again
There ought not to be a comma in there, it should just read "Hellboy" but you know me, never one to miss the opportunity for a cheap pun.  Cheap, moderate or extremely dear, Conrad has no scruples when it comes to click-baiting the viewing audience out there.
     Anyway, allow me to add a picture that may come up as the default on Facebook once this scrivel gets posted.  Art?

The lad hissen*.

     This may be the version that most of you out there are familiar with, from the films, although the purists will of course have immediately have had this image pop up in their mind's eye.  Art?

What it says on the tin, and then some.

     So, Hellboy, the creation of Mike Mignola, who hissen was due to be signing at 'Travelling Man' in Manchester between 2 and 4 on Saturday 29th October.  Appropriate date.  Conrad decided to risk his skin in what is known as "Gomorrah-on-the-Irwell", or Manchester if you're being formal about it, so get an item or so signed by the man hissen.
     'Get there about 3 o'clock when the queues's died down,' I pondered.
     Foolish Conrad!  Ignorant Conrad!  Optimistic Conrad!  Let us see Queue Part One as of 3:15 p.m.  Art?

Unseen: an equally long queue inside the store

      The queue persisted around the corner.  Art?

Oh dear

     Then we had Paolo of the staff come round to chat a bit with folk.  
     "At 4 o'clock he'll just go," informed Paolo.  Gee, thanks for that soul-dampening information, Paolo.  Conrad did not feel confident about even getting inside the store for that time.  In compensation he took a photo of Mike - us fans can call him that - from the back, determined to have at least something to show for his trip and a metaphorical snoot-cocking to Paolo.  Art?

The man from the rear

     Then another fifteen minutes later I was able to capture another perspective, this one from the side.  Not for any kind of artistic profiling, just so I could snap my fingers at Paolo.  I hoped the lady sat by Mike's side didn't think I was being creepy with this tangential photography.  Art?

That's either his wife, or Americans are very casual about mistresses ...

     One of the reasons it took so long to get into the store - 4:15! - was because some fans, and I hesitate to use the word "geek" as it would make them seem sexy and interesting by comparison - were bringing in entire comic collections, not to mention toys and other purchases, to be signed.  Conrad watched with mixed amusement and seething nitric ire as one of these characters presented individually-wrapped comics that needed to be removed and replaced after signing -

HURRY UP MY FEET HATE YOU!

     - really, 'Travelling Man' might have had a limit on how much crud you could present to the man - what's this?  Two ladies who threaten my status as Oldest Person In The Queue?

In case your memory slipped

     Anyway, I got to meet Mike, and greeted him with a handshake and a couple of things to sign, including my "John Carpenter: Lost Themes" liner notes, which he found a little unusual.  Unlike everyone else at work, Mike - and his lady wife - had heard of John, which proves how cool both he and I were.  Art?  Proof of cool.

How to look charming and personable - stand next to a big grim greyhair.

     I believe he stayed to sign everybody's articles, which must have taken him to about five o'clock.  Nor was he averse to talking to people: he told one person the fear was that only three people would turn up (see photos to scotch this fear).  Another memorable anecdote was the rain in the UK; according to Mike it only rains about three days per year in San Francisco, so it was a refreshing change to encounter this weather phenomenon here.  Well, Mike, you certainly chose the right city for it!

Signed!

     Before you go, it transpired that I wasn't the oldest person in the queue.  The mother of the lady behind me was 73, and her daughter was present on behalf of her son.  Said daughter related that her son lived in Canada, so she had been going through hundreds of comic books to find the two that he wanted her to take into Manchester to get signed.  Neither lady had ever heard of "Hellboy" in print or filmic form, so either they have lead shockingly sheltered lives, or - or people just aren't that into the things I am.  Art?

For example, this is not a film yet

     Right, I think that's enough of mixing it in Manchester.  Next up - if you're lucky - the John Carpenter gig.

Hellboy.  In case you forgot

*  Northern dialect for "himself", just - because.

A Funny Thing Happened -

- On The Way To Travelling Man And Victoria Warehouse
Normally on a Saturday I don't even sit down to begin composing the first BOOJUM! of the day until mid-afternoon.  Today this MO is thrown out of the window completely, as Mike Mignola, he of "Hellboy" fame, is signing at Travelling Man in Babylon-Lite (Manchester) between 2 and 4 p.m. and I need to be there to make a purchase or two and get his signature scribbled on them.
     So, no time to create a 750-word long screed about tanks, atomic foofoodillies and the foibles of folks at work.  Instead I shall resort to that occasional blog stand-by, the posts from this day in earlier years.
     "But - but - can't you do a post in the evening?" I hear you challenge.  "Because we miss you so!"
     Afraid not.  This evening I have to be at Victoria Warehouse, for a John Carpenter gig there, doors opening at 6:30.  I don't expect to be back home until late, at which point this aged individual will probably just want to collapse into bed, not stay up late pecking away at the keyboard.
     So!

2013:

http://comsatangel2002.blogspot.co.uk/2013/10/aha-todays-theme-doctor-who.html

2014:

http://comsatangel2002.blogspot.co.uk/2014/10/the-naked-rambler.html

2015:

http://comsatangel2002.blogspot.co.uk/2015/10/whats-wordsworth.html

     Not quite cheating, as you have a bespoke Intro.  And, Finally - 

A strange Russian tank

Atomic Death Weasels!

I Thought That Would Get Your Attention
Now, in typical BOOJUM! style, let us deal with something else entirely - the death of Bake Off.  More precisely, "The Great British Bake Off", for all you out there not lucky enough to live in the Allotment*.
     When I say "death" of course I exaggerate, because who wants boring old rational accurate reporting?  Not I!  And if you do, then, sir or madam, you have come to entirely the wrong place.  Rather than the programme being honestly, simply and definitively killed dead, it is in fact going to stumble on in a ghastly kind of un-life on some other channel that's not the Beeb.  Zombaking, if you will ...

Before the makeup

     Yes, folks at work were mourning it's passing, and asking what your humble scribe thought of the result, and would I be watching the undead version when it arrives next year**?

Which Brings Us To -
My cyborg fission-powered hit-squad made up of - weasels!
     Well, a man can dream, can't he?
     When the 24-hour party in my head subsides briefly, I occasionally ponder about forming just such a divine instrument of retribution.  Imagine it - someone, somewhere has offended Conrad in some vague and poorly-defined way, and when they answer that knock at the door, it's to an assassination team of Atomic Death Weasels!
     Were this ever to become a thing, I can assure you that the 'Guilty Pleasures' page in The Metro would be reduced to a single paragraph as multitudes of vapid, single-name celebritutes were mysteriously lasered to death.

Er - apparently "Atomic Death Weasel" is a real thing if you Google.

     If, in the near future you offend the rules of grammar and/or spelling, and there are headlines about carbonised corpses being found, over-run by tiny paw-prints, be very careful about answering the door!
The Beautiful Lady - Who KILLS!
I can tell what you're thinking - "Why doesn't Conrad employ her, she'd be a lot more photogenic than a pack of rabid stoats?"

A stoat, afloat

     Leaving aside the hideous confusion extant in your mind about stoats and weasels, I should explain that I am referring to "Belladonna", a.k.a. "Deadly Nightshade".  Art?

DANGER WILL ROBINSON! 

     This plant was used to create an extract that ladies of the Middle Ages used to dilate their pupils, surely one of the most subtle forms of "come hither" makeup ever.
     Although potentially toxic, a sub-lethal dose of belladonna can result in hallucinations, which might serve those looking for a cheap high, were it not that the difference between "lethal" and "Sub-lethal" varies wildly from person to person.  Belladonna is, frankly, wildly unpredictable.  Children have long been liable to poisoning due to the lovely bright shiny berries that the plant produces, with (allegedly) a sweet taste***.  As few as 2 berries can hasten sprogs off this earthly plane, and they're not likely to stop at a mere 2 if they think this is a free version of Vimto.

DANGER WILL ROBINSON AND ALL ROBINSONS EVERYWHERE!

     There are a battery of poisons present in Belladonna: hyoscamine, scopalomine and atropine, the last of which affects the involuntary responses of the nervous system - sweating, breathing and heartbeat.  Although - o wicked irony! - the antidote for poisoning by nerve gas is - atropine.

And For Tomorrow -
I was going to get a haircut, until I mentioned it in front of both Degsy and Wonder Wifey, who both jibbed at the idea.
     "No, No!" came the chorus.  "You look too much like him!  No haircut!"
     You may judge for yourself.  Art?

   John Carpenter                                                 Conrad
     The justification for remaining heroically hirsute is that tomorrow night I am off to Victoria Warehouse to see the Maestro of Horror in concert.  Yes, JC is also a consummate musician as well as a director, producer and screenwriter.  That there photo of him is taken from the MEN.
     This means, I am afraid, that you will very probably only get one novel post tomorrow, although if you are good - or perhaps if you are bad - I may make it an extra-specially long one.
Finally - 
This is odd but entirely true -

     The South Canadians, for one, stand in awed recognition of the sheer mightiness of having a brew station aboard your million-pound murder machine.


*  More precisely, the Allotment of Eden.  Britain!
**  A loud "NO!" resolved this query.
*** This can remain as an allegation, as your humble scribe is not at all keen to try the acid test and bolt belladonna berries.