Alistair Wilkinson Author
Alistair WilkinsonAuthor

The Comic Con

Aisles of dreams and plastic laser beams. At Cleethorpes 

and Stoke’s, masks and cloaks and more Jokers 

than you can shake his stick at. And those bewigged 

girls who want to look like a Japanese cat. The R2D2s  

and the Pennywise clown shoes. The Arnold Rimmers  

and the Shauns of the dead, the Star Wars skimmers  

and the Scooby Doo head. I even saw one dressed like  

Dredd. Bags and bags of vinyl pop heads, held close,  

ready to take home to mum-made beds. The Shining  

twins and the little-girl-Harley-Quinns, the parents who  

don’t seem to understand - the parents who dress up  

while the kids are in civvies. The ambitious ones who  

want to be entire Gotham cities. And yet there are so few Buffys 

The Deadpools and the Zelda schools, the homemade  

Ghostbuster tools and costume’s-too-big fools. An entire  

Transformer: huge cardboard legs and everybody begs  

to be something else, something different, anything else.  

To pretend to be anything but me. Or them. Never them.  

None of them are like them. They’re the awkward ones,  

the sweaty ones, the make-up-running teary ones, the  

aisle-running annoying ones, the bursting-out-for-the-day  

ones, the WWE ones and the not-dressed-up-at-all ones.  

A normal so blatant they’re a beacon of confidence: Kirks in civvies. 

Or the shy and shifty, 18 or 50 - or 60 or 70. Original Series  

or a t-shirt with Picard looking nifty. Greasy hair and  

dreaming of Kirk – you'll never suck that stomach in!  


Nothing new, only old: novelties and tat to celebrate  

stories already told. A forcefield around stalls with new  

art or new books. New ideas. They don’t recognise anything  

till they play it or binge it or energy drink it till 3 am. Finger it,  

dirty it till they own it, set it up in their own mental den. Hide  

with it, lie with it, live with it, love it. Know it, inside and out:  

abuse it, dismiss it, love it in secret till it’s not new, till it’s fodder  

for their online crew. The geek’s stomach is always empty,  

always full. Minds so sharp can be so often dull. 


To contact me, go to:

Or find Alistair Wilkinson @algy04 on twitter.

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