For one day only, Movie Quibble was in attendance at the second London Comic Con of 2015, which took place at the ExCel centre in the Southern marshlands area of the city accessible only by monorail or coal-powered steampunk tug boat. At Comic Con, tens of thousands of sweaty men and scantily clad women get together to have photographs taken of themselves in their elaborate DIY outfits, and spend months’ worth of salary on rare comics and Final Fantasy branded tiny wines.
It was a first for me, going to this sort of gathering of the nerd kingdoms, but it was such a fun, bizarre day that I’ll make sure it won’t be the last. Lest something happens. Accidental death, for one. Slipping on a tennis ball and splintering my ankle and shin, then passing out from the pain, then bleeding out before I come to because the split bone severed an artery. This blog will be a bit different from usual, because it’s not really about anything. It’s just a showcase for the photographs I took, and the writing will not cover the event in any coherent chronological order, but will instead jump between a series of experimental daydream babblings. You can just not read the words at all, instead skipping them and only looking at the pictures. Yes, definitely do that. Do not read anything. It will be that bad.
“Where we’re going, we don’t need roads”, that’s what you said, Doc. You goddam cryptic son of a bitch. One time you say it, it means we’re going to fly, or go into the past via the future, maybe both; then the next time it means that we’re going to off the road and drive into an exhibition centre in South London whereupon the Delorean breaks down. What’ll we do now?
Quiet up now, Marty. Your future is what you make it, Marty. And the future has never happened yet so how can I know what’ll it be until I make it, Marty? Oh, and before I gotta hush you up for coming back at me with some dumb retort like, “Because you make it first and then it happens later, so that one’s future can be confidently predicted by one’s current actions and plans for continuing or changing those actions in the time between this moment and the moment or series of moments which you have in mind as constituting your future, or at least the one elusive and undefined touchpoint in your uncertain – and, by definition, non-existent- future that you care about currently. Meaning that what you do now becomes what you are later, meaning that you – meaning me, Marty, since this is your dumb monologue of a smart ass attempt of a reasoned comeback I’m recreating here, Marty – fixing this car right now will mean a future in which we are in a fixed car and not stuck here”, I’ll just say right now that that’s a sound logical explanation of our predicament right now and a practical suggestion as to how we will escape it. But I’m the one that came up with it Marty, you can’t claim it, I don’t care if you were the one that was going to say it before I jumped in to stop you, it’s mine now, and I’m doing it.
Great Scott! We worship Great Scott, not these goddamned weird child toucher fake historical figureheads , Marty, remember? Great Scott Marty, how many times I gotta tell you we say Great Scott? We’ve seen Great Scott by Scod, we went there, if you’ll recall, Marty. We went to see if Jeezy was real too didn’t we, and he sure as Great Scott in Sceaven wasn’t, Marty.
Scott almighty, Doc, alright, alright! Now can we please skip to the part where you wonder aloud about your calculations being correct, which they always are, as attested to by the three films and various comics in which you do so – none more famous than in the original movie though, which as it happens is enjoying its 30th anniversary, with special commemorative events being held across the globe, one of which is coincidentally going on at this very Comic Con in which we find ourselves broken down in – so that we can get out of here? Please. Oh, man. This is heavy.
What’s heavy, Marty? What is?
This. This whole thing. Everyone is thinking it. I mean, what is going on here?
I don’t know Marty. But what I do know is that, we’re where going we roads won’t need! Because if you-
Doc, you got your quote mixed up, Your quote, Doc. DOC! Your quote-
-serious shit. Your mother –
Pull it together Doc, not this again!
– the gigawatt inside, uh, of me. All 88 of em. Marty.
Your famous-quote-a-splunger is maltracking. You’re all over the place.
I dunno, Marty. Let’s got to the before pine trees.
CEX has a massive inflatable shark and a paper umbrella tree. Guess that’s the old phrase “Umbrellas don’t grow on trees” debunked. Or maybe it was just an impressive visual metaphor to get across the message that CEX is an umbrella store, that they have everything gaming related you could need under one (waterp)roof. Or maybe they are getting cocky, and are actually warning other business at the Con to stay away and not even try it, since their model is watertight. Or, what if, it is much more literal than I’m making it out. What if CEX is owned by a flying red shark in a bowler hat who guards the ancient umbrellas tree form the gamer nerd hordes. Cracked it. Try fooling me into signing up for membership in order to make use of the irresistibly valuable currency of in-store vouchers now!
Photo taken of myself and a friend, but with physical (or digitally superimposed) guises to show how wicked our cosplays would have been if we were doing cosplay. And also to protect our identities. They are also chosen to reflect how we look. That guy there looks just like Idris Elba from Pacific Rim so that’s why that is. The other one there, being me, is all over that Stephen Graham as Al Capone in series two of Boardwalk Empire style.
But what about Vault Boy there, giving the thumbs up! There’s a rumour going around that the thumb is out in front of his face is a naturally occurring nuclear detonation personal safety measurement, because if the mushroom cloud is eclipsed by the mass of your thumb when the arm is extended full length before you, then you are going to survive. The initial blast, that is. The acid rains, radiation blowback and immediate – and incredibly violent – societal collapse will claim you soon enough. If, however, the fungi-esque doom gas appears larger than the multi-purpose bendable flesh pad on the side of your hand, then you are basically fucked.
Look at Han Solo there, just chilling out. What a cool guy. He never seems to age, it’s as if he’s frozen in time. He’s also got an ice cold sense of humour, possibly related to his being encased in carbonite. Oh, damn, that ruined the bit.
Not forgetting our homie here, whose face is oft likened to that of a billionaire playboy philanthropist vigilante emulating a bat but who has moose horns.
The Console Wars have gone too far, and have overspilled into human society. Obsolete formats of popular video game platforms from two major competing companies have merged together to do battle with similarly equally dated computer gaming entertainment systems to vie for a place in the virtual after life (the Half-ter life?). Mere moments after this photograph was taken, X-Man gave console transformer/rapper Playa Stat a taste of the three red rings of death, searing molten holes right through his shitty lifeless plastic casing. He then unclipped his hardrive and jammed it into all kinds of ports until it ejectjiected. That was before wrapping the wired controller around his throat. “S’ony a game, dude”, cried Mr Stat, “Your output is inferior and you can’t handle blu-ray, just accept it”, but X-Man only laughed and garbled something about “the diss being unreadable” before 360 noscoping his face off, standing tall above him: “There can be only ONE”.
Warhammer Man: You fucking what?
Warhammer Woman: What the fuck d’you mean you fucking what? You fucking know fucking what?
Warhammer Man: What fucking what?
Warhammer Woman: I’ll fucking you fucking what you for you fucking whatting me you fucking you fucking whatter. Fucking what the fucking what the fucking what have you fucking got to say about that? Eh? Fucking what?
Warhammer Man: Well you fucking know what I fucking think is that this you fucking what off is going to get way fucking out of fucking hand because after only two you fucking what exchanges apiece, your you fucking whattage has already reached a level of you fucking whatness that goes beyond any possible fucking way of you fucking whatting my way out of it with a you fucking what right back as you can’t fucking say you fucking what without escalating the situation further by prompting further you fucking whats to ascertain what you fucking meant in saying you fucking what without having to first say you fucking what.
Warhammer Woman: You Fucking What?
Warhammer Man: Yeah, you fucking what.
Warhammer Woman: No, what are you fucking?
Warhammer Man: Fucking nothing, what the fucking fuck about fucking you?
Warhammer Woman: Fucking me? Fucking what about it?
Warhammer Man: You fucking asked me “you fucking what?” so I say “fucking me fucking fucking you”.
Warhammer Woman: Fuck. You.
Warhammer Man: Fuck Me?
Warhammer Woman: Fuck no.
Warhammer Man: Me. Fuck.
Warhammer Woman: Fuck. Yes.
Warhammer Man: You fuuuuuuccckinnnnn whhhhaaaaatttt sonnnnn gettt innnnnnnnn!
I asked her if she wanted to come to club where people wee on each other. She showed me her mangina. Only here.
Only at this place.
[Star Wars theme] Star WAAAAAAARS. IIIIIIT’S STAAAAAR WAAAAAAARS. STAR WAAAAAAAAARS. STAAAAAR WARRRRRRRRS.
[See picture description above]
A real shame, this. Going to all that trouble collecting the increasingly rare forging resources that are ebony ingots and daedra hearts to smith a fully functioning whole body Daedric suit of armour , which can only be completed after acquiring the Daedric smithing perk (not to mention an overall smithing skill of 90), but stupidly forgetting to craft the middling-torso and breastplate sections, thus leaving yourself fully exposed to midriff stabbing and or severance (in which the stomach is spliced horizontally in twain from a powerful sideways strike some some double-handed long-shafted battle axe or long sword) as well as neck tickling, which proves fatal in almost every case. All bullshit aside, this cosplay is pretty sick, but I can’t help but feel frustrated at the lack of detailing on the axe head itself. Everything else is on point but the business end of the weapon itself just looks a bit choppy. I know, I know, I’m a hack.
Most complex mechanical costume of the day goes to this guy. They couldn’t fit the VIP wrist band around his chunky metallic wrist though, so he wasn’t let in. This right here is as far as he got.
Oh yep, just another Comic Con stall selling a panoply of vintage action figures and collectibles in various degrees of packaging. Some in mint condish, some not so much, whatever. Nothing new to see here really. Wait a moment.
Is that…. is that a fucking unboxed £5 Shrek Toy?????
OK, that’s it. Thank you, Comicon again.