The holes in comics history are finally closing

The canon of comics is full of lost greats – but the gaps are slowly getting filled in.

Delve too deeply into any "best-of" list of comics, and you're likely to have an unpleasant discovery: some of the greatest works produced in the medium are unavailable, and have been for years.

Occasionally, this is just the industry's own doltishness. When Marvel can't even keep in print Guardians of the Galaxy, a critically-acclaimed space-opera published just four years ago and in the process of being made into a major film, I despair. (A hardback of volume two of the series is selling for £60 second hand at the moment).

But sometimes, it's less in the hands of the industry. For various reasons, some books which ought never to have fallen out of print have become untouchable. And there's almost a holy trinity within that category, three books which new comics fans were forever being told "you should read these – but you can't": Flex Mentallo, Marvelman and Zenith.

But the ice seems to be thawing. After years in limbo, there's now hope on the horizon.

Flex Mentallo is actually already back in print. The book, the first major collaboration between Scotland's Grant Morrison and Frank Quitely, spins off Morrison's earlier work for DC, Doom Patrol. Starring Flex Mentallo, a man who can twist reality with just a twitch of his muscles, the book is a metatextual riff on what superhero comics meant to a young Morrison.

It was also held up for years by a law suit with Charles Atlas, he of the "I Can Make YOU a New Man" adverts. Flex was clearly a take-off of Atlas, right down to starring in a parody of his ads, but rather that fight for the right to lampoon, a scared DC agreed not to reprint the book – an agreement which held for two decades.

Next on the horizon seems to be Marvelman. This Alan Moore comic, illustrated by a who's who of the 1980s best artists, has been trapped in a quagmire for years. Firstly, there's Moore himself, who, burnt by the mainstream comics industry over and over, wants nothing to do with any of it. Then there's Marvel, who forced the character's name to be changed to "Miracleman" when it was launched in the US, and recently bought up the rights to the 1950s series it was based on. Next, Neil Gaiman gets involved, having had the rights transferred to him – apparently – by Moore when he took over writing the series in 1990. After that, Todd McFarlane, the illustrator of Spawn and one of the founders of Image Comics, bought Eclipse, Marvelman's publishers, and – look, it's an omnishambles, OK?

But Marvel has been working behind the scenes trying to clear up the rights, and the hope is that they're getting closer than ever before to actually having it in the bag. Marvelman has been out of print for too long already, so it would be great to see it back on the shelves.

But what of the last of the three? Zenith, Grant Morrison's first major work, co-created with Brendan McCarthy and Steve Yeowall, is a distinctly un-heroic superhero. Exploring ideas of generational inheritance, fame, and iconography, it has been out of print for the more prosaic reason that no-one has been able to sort out who owns it. Rebellion, publishers of 2000 AD, where the character originally appear, claim it's them, Morrison that it's him.

But I've heard through the grapevine that that might be cleared up – and sooner than I thought. Rebellion aren't talking, but turning up to C2E2. the Chicago comic-con, wearing Zenith t-shirts (as seen in the pic at the top, there) could be interpreted as a pretty big wink in that direction. I'd say "wait and see"; just, don't go dropping £100 on a complete set on eBay any time soon. You'll be kicking yourself if I'm right…

The Rebellion table at C2E2

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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How to explain Brexit to your kids

It’s not hard. The Brexiteers’ tantrums are a parody of how children behave.

My parents never sat me down for “the politics talk”. I suspect they were too embarrassed. Like many children of my generation, I was left to develop my own ideas about what adults did in private.

We didn’t have the internet and our arms were too short to open most newspapers (scientists were still working on the tabloid-broadsheet hybrid). Hence we picked up news randomly, either by overhearing snippets on the radio while buying sweets in the newsagent’s or by accidentally watching the start of the six o’clock news following the end of Charles In Charge.

By the time I was nine, the same age my eldest child is now, I had unrealistic expectations of politicians and the democratic process. Due to the fact that I had no idea what anyone was talking about, I assumed everyone in the House of Commons was having serious, informed thoughts about the most important issues of the day.

I now know that the real reason I couldn’t understand what anyone was saying was because what had sounded like “roargh roargh [insult] <braying laughter>” really had been “roargh roargh [insult] <braying laughter>” all along. I’d assumed it was a language I had yet to learn, one of the more specialised dialects of Adult-ese. I’d already wasted one vote by the time I realised that Prime Minister’s Questions was basically Jeremy Kyle with posher accents and minus the lie detector tests.

I don’t want my children to make the same mistakes as me. Thankfully, it turns out Brexit Britain is the ideal place to teach your kids how politics really works. Never has there been a time when those stalking the corridors of power were more in tune with the average tantruming toddler. There’s no point in rational argument; you just have to hope that those in power burn themselves out before too much damage is done.

This particular tantrum has of course been building for some time. The dominant rhetoric of the Leave campaign – like that of the Tory party itself – always offered a spoilt child’s view of the world, one in which you are the centre of the universe, depending on no one else for your survival.

When others point out that this isn’t the case – that perhaps you wouldn’t have a home and food on the table if it wasn’t for Mummy or Daddy, or perhaps the UK would not have a strong economy were it not a member of the EU – you simply tell them they’re being mean. You’ll show them! They’re not the boss of you! So you pack your bags and leave.

If you are six, you might get to the corner of your road, realise with disappointment that no one is following you and turn back, hoping no one noticed you were gone. If you are the UK, you hang around for a while, maybe hiding in some bushes, thinking “any minute now they’ll come looking for me.”

But they don’t, so eventually you think “sod ‘em, I’ll go to my mates’. Unfortunately, you cannot get there without Mummy to drive you. This is a problem. But at least you can tell yourself that you were doubly right to leave, since everything that is happening now is Mummy’s fault.

Never in British politics has the panicked outrage of those who know they are making a terrible mistake been so palpable. It reminds me of the time when I was teaching my eldest son to drink from a beaker. He kept spilling small amounts, which caused him so much distress he’d end up pouring the rest of the juice onto the carpet to make it look deliberate. Whenever I tried to stop him, I’d only make him more panicked, thus even more likely to get juice everywhere.

I have since asked him if he remembers why he did this. He says he does not, but I have told him this is what the British government is doing with Brexit. The referendum was the initial spillage; we now have to sit and watch, biting our tongues, in the hope that the “well, anyhow, I totally meant to do that!” response can be averted.

There is little chance of that, though. When my middle son told his older brother he could fly, he quickly backed down on being asked to demonstrate this by jumping from an upstairs window. Liam Fox would have thrown himself headlong, then blamed Project Fear for his broken neck. Or rather, he’d have thrown someone else – one of the millions of people whose lives really will be ruined by Brexit – then tried to argue that the exceptionally bendy necks of UK citizens could be used as one of the “main cards” in negotiations.

The behaviour is beyond childlike; it is a parody of how children behave. When I asked one of my sons to clean his teeth this morning, he called me a “poo head” and said his teeth wouldn’t get decay. He still brushed them, though.

He did not conclude I was some sinister sore loser out to trick him because his teeth are young and white and mine are old and stained. He still has some basic sense that people who ask you to do things you don’t want to do might yet have your best interests at heart, regardless of who is right or wrong. He did not call me a sneering member of the elite trying to override the will of all toothpaste-rejecting British children (to be fair, I think “poo head” may have been meant to capture that, but at least he only called me it once).

Then again, the teeth in my son’s head are his alone. The consequences of neglect would be his to endure. Those stage-managing the Brexit tantrum are insulated from its most devastating consequences. Thus they can hurl insults, stick their fingers in their ears and take more than a little pleasure in the sheer recklessness of it all. It is not just an extended childhood; it is childhood without having to come to terms with the consequences of your own behaviour, because others will suffer them for you.

I want my own children to understand that what they see now is not what politics should be. That there is not some deep, meaningful logic underpinning what the adults in charge are doing. What looks like bitterness, point-scoring and sheer lack of self-control is, more often than not, just that. We have indulged these people too long. Let’s raise a generation with higher expectations of those who will claim to speak on their behalf.

Glosswitch is a feminist mother of three who works in publishing.