Hello, my dear friends!
I realise that at the start of this Substack adventure, I posted about five times in a week. However, after a few days of receiving several different newsletters that I’d subscribed to myself, I realised that I had probably been overdoing things just a bit.
It’s one thing me having plenty to say and quite another you having to see yet more in your Inbox, especially as you probably hadn’t read the previous three yet!
Feel free to respond to my poll below. It’ll give me a steer on how often I should add to your reading matter.
I have to confess that I still have over forty strips already drawn and ready to go here, so there are plenty before I have to start actually doing any new work.
At that point, when I really have to get my head down and stop living like a poundshop playboy (rising at ten and easing my way through the day before sinking into my chair with an entirely unearned glass of something) I will start to ask folk for a small contribution if they want to continue reading Merrie England. It won’t be a lot and it won’t be for a good while yet but if I’m to commit to Merrie England long-term, it only seems fair to me that I should get some gin vouchers in return.
Without further blether, then, here’s the latest.
As you know by now, only the last one is new. The first three establish the story line.
More to come very soon.
By the way, as time passes, you’ll notice small changes to the strip as it develops. Sometimes it’s a little tweak to the way a character looks, sometimes it’s the way I do the text. On other occasions, it’s actually changes to the software I use. I started out doing these using Sketchbook Pro but found that, although it’s a lovely drawing programme, it doesn’t do dialogue. Meaning that I have to draw the text as well as the pictures.
After a while, I realised that there’s a software out there that is entirely for cartoon strips, so it has text, any amount of fonts, talk balloons and everything! It’s called Clip Studio Paint and was originally created in Japan for producers of Manga comics. As is usually the case, if a software is specific to your aims, you should use it, and so I made the change and everything suddenly happened just a little bit more efficiently.
The strips above are done before I switched, so the text is done by my own trembling hand. Later on, you’ll see a change.
Quiz Night
We used to watch University Challenge on the BBC back in the old country, our dinner trays on our laps, invariably. Since neither of us has a university education, and since there has been a lack of classical literature, advanced mathematics, physics and ancient history in my upbringing, I used to count it a good night’s work if, during each show, I could answer four questions between forkfulls (forksfull?) of lasagne, chilli con carne or perhaps, chicken pie. I regularly shouted at the screen with the manners of a barbary pirate, my mouth still full of dinner, fork hand stabbing at the television, trying to get my answer out before the quizmaster, Jeremy Paxman. Leona and I did this for years and in the end, it has simply served to remind me that I don’t know much about much at all.
University Challenge is for university students of stunning ability and it is designed to be hard for them, let alone those of us with a more humdrum education. It will humble most of us in seconds. And if it doesn’t bring you humility, or even humiliation, nothing will.
Leona and I would marvel at the intellect and instant recall of these pimply youths from Oxford, Cambridge, York, Lancaster and the rest of the university estate. The unseen announcer would call out, in response to an urgent buzzer, “Blatterthwaite, Caius!” and Blatterthwaite of Caius College (pronounced ‘keys’, by the way”) would confidently shout “Pericles!”, “Strontium!”, or perhaps “George Bernard Shaw!” We would share a sideways glance, eyebrows either arched or bunched, to signify that Blatterthwaite was pretty impressive and fully merited his or her place at university and therefore, this moment of television glory.
Now, here in France, all those years of arduous training are being put to earnest use once a month down at a local restaurant, where they hold a quiz evening with food.
If Universiy Challenge is the Premier League of quizzes, featuring lavishly talented superstars fawned on by their admiring fans, the quiz night at Le Restaurant des Trois Canards (three ducks, to you) is Sunday League on a windswept local park where dogwalkers have contributed enthusiastically to the richness of the the playing surface.
The cheery quizmaster, who will later double up as a waiter, greets us, the contenders, by name as we bustle into the restaurant, chattering amongst ourselves as though nothing important is at stake. He places scoresheets on the dining tables and we settle down in our appointed seats, ordering drinks and starting to relax.
The teams are in place. Some look unconcerned. Others chat.
That relaxed air fools nobody, though. The competitive instinct, that inbuilt will to win at all costs, is at play already. Like the players limbering up on freezing football pitches on cold, wet Sunday mornings across the country, ostentatiously stretching, practicing shots at goal or miming their favourite brand of ferocious tackle, the competitors regard each other across the playing area. Whilst appearing unconcerned, they are noting who is turning up today. Who is the General Knowledge heavyweight? Who is the nimble thinker and possessor of uncanny powers of memory? Who has the best knowledge of 1960s chart music or the culinary preferences of different nations? Who knows chemical symbols, capital cities or arcane cat breeds? They all know each other through many previous quiz nights and they all respect their opponents.
On the surface, at least.
Just as the footballers contemplate the thud and blunder to come, the competitors look forward to the cerebral struggle ahead.
However, I have only described one section of the people here. Thus far, we have been studying The Competitors.
On certain tables, however, and scattered throughout the restaurant, there are those devoted only to swilling wine, eating, laughing and enjoying themselves.
These we shall call The Revellers. Those for whom this is a social occasion to be exploited to the full, like a birthday party or wedding reception; those who don’t retain an iota of information about anything much, can’t be useful in a quiz team and don’t see why on earth they should. They just want a good time, a good drink and “a laugh”. Nevertheless, inexplicably, as far as The Competitors are concerned, they have decided to descend upon a Quiz Night. To them, the only thing missing is dancing. The Competitors snarl inwardly..
You will readily understand that the presence of The Revellers serves only to goad The Competitors, who are made to feel that their competitiveness is at once risible and pointless. “It’s a night out!”, they cry. “You don’t take this stuff seriously, do you?” Worst of all, “Who cares who wins?”
For The Revellers, just being out among other people is sufficient to bring them joy. The Competitors have other ideas, though. They scowl and mutter foul oaths at the guffawing, braying and above all, light-hearted Revellers.
For The Competitors, you see, this attitude is outrageous, as if they were witnessing, during the Nuremberg trials, the grim-faced jury being gate-crashed by a passing troupe of drunken circus clowns interrupting with Bronx cheers, party poppers and red plastic noses when all the world knows that matters of the utmost gravity are playing out.
The genial host does his level best to rise above them, stopping only every thirty seconds or so to plead for “a bit of quiet, so that I can read out the questions!”
The evening plays out and the questions are asked. The answers are painstakingly written onto the scoresheets and the meals are eaten, some having been served by the ever-patient and genial quizmaster. All this in a ceaseless hubbub, like taking your school exams in a Victorian bear pit. Each team has at least two people who never contribute anything, the Revellers produce scoresheets stained with wine and food and execrable spelling and in the end, the scores are counted, the winning team is announced and everyone goes home in the dark. The winners are triumphant and the rest will head off into the soft French night air. The Revellers don’t win, don’t care and aim to continue revelling.
If I had a sense of smell, which I don’t, having lost it somehow around thirty-five years ago, I’d probably speak of the intoxicating scent of night flowers but of course, I can’t. I’m sure there is a scent of night flowers, though, as these soft French nights would probably be much less charming without.
Here’s your extra bonus with this post. If you’d like to know more about drawing cartoons like Merrie England, this one’s for you. And if you like it, how about subscribing to my YouTube channel as well? You’ll see a link when you get there!
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