OK, here’s a mildly amusing story that might also lead comics Twitter to find someone for me so I can issue an apology some 37 years in coming. A thread. Obviously.

So, let’s turn the clock back to around… 1983, I suppose. I was about 13, anyway. And I used to make my own fanzine. It was called VOX STELLARUM because I thought that sounded very sci-fi, and I used to write articles about films and draw my own comics and it was pretty awful

But I was an only child, and a bit of a geeky weirdo at times. And 13. I hadn’t discovered girls yet. Or at least, girls hadn’t wanted to be discovered by me. Anyhoo. I made a couple of issues of this. Hang on, I might have some pix.

So, I sent one off to Marvel UK and they published a letter from me in, I think, the Spider-Man comic at the time, in which I asked for artists and writers to get in touch. And they published my full address.

So I got a few people sending stuff to me. Which was great. I was a magazine editor at the age of 13. Then, one day, I got a phone call at home.

I wish I could remember the guy’s name, but I can’t. But he asked me about the art job that was going at my magazine that he’d read about in Spider-Man Weekly. I was 13. I stuck the fanzine together with sellotape in my bedroom. Got it photocopied by my uncle at work.

So of course I said, “Yes, the position is still open.”
Artist: “Can I come to talk to you about it, maybe Saturday? About 3pm?”
Me: “Yeeeesss, I think that would be fine."

Then I put the phone down and promptly forgot about it and went to play football in my wellies or something. COMPLETELY forgot about it, in fact. Even on the following Saturday. When I went into Wigan town centre to, I don’t know, window shop at Concept Man or Stolen from Ivor.

Then I got home. About 4pm. To two perplexed parents. “There’s a man here,” hissed my dad as I walked in the door. “Apparently he’s come about a *job*."

And I walked into the living room to find a guy, probably in his 20s, with a big art portfolio. Drinking cups of tea. For an hour. Waiting for me to interview him about a job. I’ve probably mentioned this, but I was 13.

He’d come on the train from Manchester. I pronounced that I would do the interview in my bedroom. We sat on my bed and I cast a detailed, critical eye over his portfolio.

I’m absolutely dying of shame thinking about this now. The poor guy had come for a paying gig. To Wigan. In 1983. To be greeted by a 13-year-old who had not only forgotten he was coming, but had about three quid in his piggy bank. And made his homemade comic in his room.

And he was very, very good about it. We talked a lot about comics and movies and illustration, he left me some of his artwork to use in future issues of my fanzine. My dad ran him to the train station with his portfolio and no job.

And I never brought out another issue of the fanzine. Because, puberty. I lost interest in comics and all that stuff in the pursuit of girls and underage drinking.

I think about this a lot. And I’ve lost all the documentation and his name and everything. But I bet he remembers the day he went for a job with a 13-year-old. If he is on Twitter, I’d like to profusely apologise to him for being a precocious , time-wasting little twat.

THE END

PS I wrote some books and stuff since then https://www.amazon.co.uk/s?i=stripbooks&bbn=62&rh=n%3A266239%2Cn%3A62%2Cp_27%3ADavid+M.+Barnett%2Cp_lbr_books_authors_browse-bin%3ADavid+Barnett&s=relevancerank&dc&qid=1597224694&rnid=535007031&text=David+M.+Barnett&ref=is_r_p_lbr_books_authors_browse-bin_1