In Praise of Molly

I'm still a little shaky after last night's brush with the unimaginable conspiracy which exists around, and to some extent within, my local pub, but I've settled my nerves with Dogtooth's favoured analgesic - Anadin Extra (actually I favour a cheaper, own brand alternative, but I'm trying to keep things looking classy) - and I want to write about Achewood.

Good comic strips are very rare (I was briefly exposed to the Sun's 'funnies' while waiting for my tea to brew yesterday morning, and can only report disappointment, or, in one example, actual offence), and in the open cloaca of the web anything of any merit at all whatsoever is rarer still, so Achewood is a daily delight. I like Achewood because of Roast Beef, a cat whose debilitating depression causes him to shower in his socks and to overspice nachos; I like it because of Lyle, a stuffed tiger who wishes he could wake up with the liquor already inside him. I like Achewood because of the constant references to the preparation and consumption of food, and because of the Bangsian themes of death and resurrection. I like the character Emeril LeGoinegasque, a Melungeon who speaks in a bizzare cod-chaucerian manner and trash-spots recreationally. Most of all though, I like the timing. Gags are offbeat and asymmetrical. A punchline does not end the strip, but is followed by a silence, or a change of topic. It is delicate, intelligent, and, a (dare I say it) postmodern. Beckett uses the same technique of the ruined laugh, the abortive joke.

The entire comic exists in a weird, semi-real space, which intersects uncannily with our own world: the characters keep blogs which can be read online, and they listen to bands and cook foods which exist in our own world, but they also have their own peculiar life, where stuffed animals talk and cats gather ever year for a Great Outdoor Fight where hundreds of them brawl to the death for personal pride. You can buy Roast Beef's t-shirt (I am the guy who sucks. Plus I got depression.) or Raymond Smuckles the millionaire party cat's brand of hot sauce. The fictional urban recreation of trash-spotting is gaining a real-world following. You can buy a novel written by the gentlemanly serial killer Nice Pete or have your problems answered by the ever knowledgeable Ray.

Achewood bills itself as 'a momentary diversion on the road to the grave'. Well divert away; I raise a glass of my customary cocktail (cut-price red wine, white cider, whisky, ink, salty sea water and saltier tears, mixed in a dustbin before breakfast and sipped throughout the day) and drink to its creator, Chris Onstad.

In other news, I cut and pasted another's work (above) without any knowledge of copyright law, and the legality or otherwise of my act. Don't be surprised if you see me being led away by the 5-0 with five pairs of handcuffs on me.