If ever there was a paragon of disgrace and infamy, you need look no further than Reg Smythe's pint-sized, permanently pickled lay-about, Andy Capp. I should know. However inappropriate for juvenile consumption they may seem today, we grew up with a stack of the Andy Capp comics, usually hauled out on Sundays or rainy days. Andy Capp drank until he was horizontal, abused snatching privileges on his wife's handbag to finance his vices and avoided work and the rent collector like the plague. On top of that, he was toxically misogynistic and all too frequently, his endless battles with long-suffering spouse Florrie turned physical. About the only nice thing one could say about the diminutive Northerner was that he liked pigeons. Andy and his regular supporting cast of victims and enablers are shrewdly observed and drawn, providing brutally honest social commentary. To quote Charlie Chaplin (yet another flawed human being, by modern standards), "Life is a tragedy when seen in close-up, but a comedy in long-shot".
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Trigger Warnings: Inappropriate humor.
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