THE SLOBS
Adapted into a Graphic Novel of Glorious, Grease-Splattered Chaos.
In the rain-soaked sprawl of Oakhaven's council estates, where dreams die faster than a Greggs bag plumbing fix, the Slob family reigns supreme in a kingdom of low-level anarchy and sky-high schemes! Mick, the self-anointed king of get-rich-quick disasters, plots gold-plated mobility scooters and artisanal sausages that explode like fireworks (the bad kind). His queen, Tracey, navigates the madness with sighs, sherry, and a reality TV obsession that could launch them to stardom?or straight to the tabloids.
But hold onto your chip butties: there's Kylie, the selfie-obsessed influencer turning family feuds into viral gold (or nightmare fuel); Tyler, the pint-sized pyromaniac whose "experiments" light up the neighborhood (literally); the thieving twin terrors Jayden and Kayden, masters of the midnight heist; and baby Chardonnay, puffing vapes like a tiny chimney sweep. Together, they're a powder keg of petty crime, lottery fever, and unshakeable loyalty?dodging nosy neighbors, meddling social workers, and the relentless grind of "benefits Britain.
"From shed infernos to sausage stampedes, The Slobs is a riotous graphic novel of dark laughs, heartfelt havoc, and the unbreakable bond of a family that turns failure into folklore. Will Mick's next scheme save them... or sink them deeper into the gutter? Strap in for a wild ride through the underbelly of aspiration?where every panel's a punchline, and redemption tastes like deep-fried regret.
"A hilarious gut-punch of working-class wit?think Viz meets The Simpsons on a council estate bender!"
Autorentext
Owen Croft was forged in the relentless drizzle of Manchester's backstreets, where the Irwell murmurs secrets to the stone warehouses and the city's heartbeat thumps like a faulty piston. Born and raised amid the red-brick sprawl of the North, this unassuming bloke traded the roar of Friday night lock-ins for the hush of forgotten moors, where he could finally hear his own thoughts without the din of the world crashing in.
By day, Owen's a ghost in the machine?tinkering with words in a creaky attic studio overlooking the Pennines, far from the pixelated frenzy of social scrolls and siren calls. He's the sort who brews a pot of builder's tea strong enough to strip paint, cracks open a dog-eared Philip K. Dick or Raymond Chandler, and lets the pages pull him into alternate realities where Manchester's canals twist into wormholes or its cobbled alleys hide syndicate shadows. Writing, for him, is less a craft than a quiet rebellion: a way to wrestle the chaos of cyber-noir heists, gene-spliced grudges, and temporal double-crosses onto the page, all laced with that wry, rain-soaked Northern grit.
When he's not chasing plot twists through the ether, you'll find Owen hiking the wild fringes of the Peak District, notebook in hand, scribbling fragments inspired by the wind-whipped heather or a sudden squall. For Owen Croft, the best stories aren't told; they're unearthed, one sodden boot-print at a time. Escape with him. The world's mad enough as it is.