Comics review: Marc Ellerby's Ellerbisms

A comic strip that began life with few pretensions.

Ellerbisms began life with few pretensions. It was to be a diary comic like so many others: a page of a Moleskine a day, illustrated with something which happened to Marc Ellerby in the last twenty-four hours. These are the bread-and-butter of the indie cartoonist's world, and, along with gag strips, make up the majority of webcomics (once you exclude the furries, at least). But, as Ellerby says:

Then I met a Swedish girl called Anna and it stopped being so sporadic (and boring).

What you end up reading is a chronicle of a relationship, messy bits included, written as it happened. To this end, Ellerby has also added a new prologue and epilogue, as well as adding a few pages in near the beginning to elaborate on the context of some of the strips. This is a good idea; those early strips, already the weakest part of the book, occasionally make reference to events which Ellerby simply didn't get round to illustrating in real time, and the extra content helps the story hold together as one coherent piece.

New artwork next to old does serve to emphasise how much better a cartoonist Ellerby is now than he was when he started. But thanks to his decision to excise the first few months of Ellerbisms strips, and turn the book from "the complete collection" to "the complete Marc and Anna", there's little of the genuinely amateurish stuff left in. His very first strip remains as a nostalgic title page, and it's a nice scene in its own right; but if the first twenty pages were like it, readers might never hit the good stuff.

Which would be a shame. Like Joff Winterhart's Costa-nominated Days of the Bagnold Summer, Ellerbisms' short episodes, frequently just a page each, build up a detailed, touching portrait of the young couple (whereas Bagnold Summer's episodic nature was an affectation, this is the real deal). We see them fighting over nothing, singing and preparing, and their holidays, working days, and days out in the park. The end, when it comes, isn't surprising, because we have come to know the pair so well that the writing was on the wall. But it is saddening nonetheless.

Not that Ellerbisms is a mopey book. It wears its page-a-day heritage on its sleeve, and the pages of silliness and gags are frequently laugh-out-loud funny. But without that emotional core, it would feel like so many other good but ephemeral webcomics.

Ellerby has also worked hard to make Ellerbisms worth reading as a book, rather than just mooching off the still-available free archives. As well as the aforementioned extra content – and removed content, because what's not collected is as important as what is – it's also packaged together with production values (including delicious rounded corners, a hat-tip to the Moleskine heritage) that well exceed what was necessary to get it out the door. It's all part of Ellerby's – and diary-comics co-conspirator Adam Cadwell's – audacious self-publishing venture, Great Beast.

The two are publishing high quality editions of their complete diary comics – Cadwell's The Everyday is available in hardback, nigh-on unheard of for a self-published webcomic – as well as their other works, like Cadwell's six-part Blood Blokes, about hipster vampires, and Ellerby's Chloe Noonan: Monster Hunter, a sort of Buffy-without-powers. If it works, it will let them cut out the middleman, and may just make publishing these sort of comics, if not quite profitable, then at least break-even. If it doesn't, it will have been an expensive experiment.

No matter what the quality of the physical objects produced, Great Beast will live or die on the skill of its artists. While Chloe Noonan has failed to find the commercial success it deserves, leading to a reboot being planned, it shows that Ellerby has the chops to make something fun and accessible. Hopefully it will find the audience it deserves, and give Ellerby a ticket to riches. But Ellerbisms is proof that he can do much more than just that.

What you end up reading is a chronicle of a relationship. Photograph: Getty Images.

Alex Hern is a technology reporter for the Guardian. He was formerly staff writer at the New Statesman. You should follow Alex on Twitter.

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There are only two rules for an evening drink: it must be bitter, and it must be cold

A Negroni is the aperitif of choice in bars everywhere from London to Palermo - and no wonder.

The aperitif has the odd distinction of being the only alcohol that can always rely on a sober audience: it is the opener, the stimulant, a spur to the appetite for good food and good conversation. This preparatory beverage is considered the height of sophistication, and certainly nobody labouring in field or factory ever required a pep to their evening appetite. Still, to take a drink before one starts drinking is hardly clever behaviour. So why do it?

One reason is surely the wish to separate the working day from the evening’s leisure, an increasingly pressing matter as we lose the ability to switch off. This may change the nature of the aperitif, which was generally supposed to be light, in alcohol and character. Once, one was expected to quaff a pre-dinner drink and go in to dine with faculties and taste buds intact; now, it might be more important for those who want an uninterrupted meal to get preprandially plastered. That way, your colleagues may contact you but they won’t get much sense out of you, and pretty soon they’ll give up and bother someone else.

The nicest thing about the aperitif, and the most dangerous, is that it doesn’t follow rules. It’s meant to be low in alcohol, but nobody ever accused a gin and tonic or a Negroni (Campari, gin and vermouth in equal portions) of that failing; and sherry, which is a fabulous aperitif (not least because you can keep drinking it until the meal or the bottle ends), has more degrees of alcohol than most wines. An aperitif should not be heavily perfumed or flavoured, for fear of spoiling your palate, yet some people love pastis, the French aniseed drink that goes cloudy in water, and that you can practically smell across the Channel. They say the scent actually enhances appetite.

Really only two rules apply. An aperitif should be bitter – or, at any rate, it shouldn’t be sweet, whatever the fans of red vermouth may tell you. And it must be cold. Warm drinks such as Cognac and port are for after dinner. Not for nothing did Édith Piaf warble, in “Mon apéro”, about drowning her amorous disappointments in aperitifs: fail to cool your passions before sharing a table, and you belong with the barbarians.

On the other hand, conversing with your nearest over a small snack and an appropriate beverage, beyond the office and before the courtesies and complications of the dinner table, is the essence of cultured behaviour. If, as is sometimes thought, civilisation has a pinnacle, surely it has a chilled apéro carefully balanced on top.

The received wisdom is that the French and Italians, with their apéritifs and aperitivos, are the experts in these kinds of drinks. Certainly the latter are partial to their Aperol spritzes, and the former to such horrid, wine-based tipples as Lillet and Dubonnet. But the English are good at gin and the Americans invented the Martini. As for Spain, tapas were originally snacks atop a covering that kept the flies out of one’s pre-dinner drink: tapa means lid.

Everywhere, it seems, as evening approaches, people crave a drink that in turn will make them salivate: bitterness, the experts tell us, prepares the mouth to welcome food. The word “bitter” may come from “bite”, in which case the aperitif’s place before dinner is assured.

I like to think that a good one enables the drinker to drown all sour feelings, and go in to dinner cleansed and purified. Fanciful, perhaps. But what better lure to fancy than a beverage that exists only to bring on the evening’s pleasures?

Nina Caplan is the Louis Roederer Pio Cesare Food and Wine Writer of the Year

Nina Caplan is the 2014 Fortnum & Mason Drink Writer of the Year and 2014 Louis Roederer International Wine Columnist of the Year for her columns on drink in the New Statesman. She tweets as @NinaCaplan.

This article first appeared in the 22 September 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The New Times