That's the last pages of inks just finished on my Birds Of Prey (issue 91, published by DC, out in Feb, in case you hadn't heard). Jimmy Palmiotti personally handed them over to editor Joan Hilty, which to my mind is a scene straight out of the 'Pulp Fiction' Tarantino really wanted to film. So the issue has almost nearly virtually been put to bed. Joan has been ever-vigilant searching out for the oddly quaintly British word that sometimes creeps into my scripts. A car boot sale becomes a yard sale, an enquiry becomes an inquiry, alluminium becomes illuniumumnumnum. As it has been with the great American icons I have put to paper in the past such as Johnny Bravo and, um, I Am Weasel. But rest assured friends young and old in a small pocket universe I call my own the characters of DC and Marvel all talk with a heady mix of the Glasgow patter and Ayrshire crac, and the Godfather of Soul doesn't sing 'Living in America', but 'Living in Ardrossan'.