So far, this column has Panel Beaten most modern problems in comics. I've done the Comics Code, the industry's absurdly dire marketing to new readers, ageism towards older writers, variant covers, overpricing and the subsequent lack of available titles, and even the Great White Hope, Web Comics.

But these are just symptoms. Let's get to the heart of the disease.

Let's Kill Comics.

Most reasonable people will agree that no matter how many good comics are out there right now - and there are more than a few - they are continually swamped by the sheer amount of shite. Utter, utter crap that isn't worth the time or money we spend on them as consumers, but dominate the bestsellers list.

We continually dream of a better world, where mainstream comics break out of their ghetto and are welcomed into the penthouse suites and best parties. That someday, and maybe soon, there will be enough really good comics available that we can tell people how much we adore the medium without having to prepare a half-hour rant along the lines of, "No, not all comics are like that, some of them are on a par with great literature or film. Really."

Ain't gonna happen. Not in our lifetime.

And if it isn't - if the task is futile, because comics are like cigarettes, and no matter how expensive they have to be to cover profits and taxes, someone will always buy them - if this is true, and the dream is dead, then why shouldn't we just kill them now?

I'm not talking about killing bad comics. I'm not talking about destroying the current industry model. I mean burn the fuckers, every single one of them, and no-one produces any more. Ever. Eradicate this miserable little excuse for an industry, which needs nothing more than a scorched earth right now to stand any chance of surviving, and blank the last 50 years from the minds of everyone on the planet.

Would anyone miss them? No.

But what might happen - what's happened to many trends and genres and fashions and styles and methods - might just happen to an entire medium.

Imagine an artist, or a writer, a hundred years down the line, conceiving the notion of sequential art all over again. Finding that someone did it before, a century ago, and tracking down a yellow-paged, crumbling old copy of a comic. Laughing at how primitive it is, and wondering why everyone in it is a pro wrestler running around in skintight clothing.

And deciding to do it better.

The world wakes up to this new movement. They react with scorn at first, as all people do to new ideas. Then, work of note is produced. A Critic of Influence gives this "sequential art" a rave review. Slowly, people decide to try it out, buying one the next time they pop into a bookstore.

With no knowledge or memory of superheroes, or the Comics Code, or sweaty elitist hovels that have the blinding gall to call themselves shops, they enjoy this book for what it is. The next time they go to the bookstore, they spot another one, nestling in amongst the crime fiction - so they buy it.

And comics rises like a phoenix from the ashes.

Let's Kill Comics.

Antony Johnston, 16th April 2000.