There was once a hero in the Daily Mirror. He ran from 1943 to 1997. Fifty-four years. His name was Garth. This is his complete biography, more or less.
The Wardrobe
Garth wore a T-shirt. Trousers. Occasionally shirtless and even au naturel, when the situation called for it — or simply when he couldn't be bothered.
That was the full extent of the deliberation.
No cape.
No helmet.
No armour forged in a secret underground facility.
No glowing chest emblem requiring nineteen minutes of explanation.
No iconic silhouette recognisable from a distance of four hundred metres.
Plenty of no's.
Just Garth, dressed approximately like a bloke who'd nipped out for a pint and stumbled into a crisis.
He dealt with the crisis. Then, presumably, continued to the pub.
Well, a hanging cloth rather than a cape. Look at it — it's barely doing anything. It's just sort of... there! Hanging off casually, like he forgot it was on. Not sweeping heroically. Not billowing dramatically. Just — dangling cloth. Whatever. And... what helmet? That's a cooking pot. A proper, metal-base cooking pot. No cushion, not a helmet.
Cooking.
Pot.
It was from "The Phantom Pharaoh". In that, Garth couldn't be bothered to wear... a proper wardrobe... as per usual. Just went straight to briefs. Skipped every other available Egyptian garment entirely. — Ah, a cloth. Red. Fits the colour of my briefs. Hang in there, cloth. I found a cooking pot! Ah. Red. Good for you, pot. Boots! Fantastic.
As you've noticed, that specific combination is somehow simultaneously the most and least heroic outfit imaginable. It's like he dressed in the dark, grabbed one item too many, and one item too few. And just carried on. —
(Garth enters the room, cloth dangling about.)
Garth: Who needs saving today, Pharaoh...tress?
Me.
Garth: You? Right.
The phantom is a troublemaker.
Garth: Ah, so the phantom is the troublemaker. Yes yes. Mm. Did he dress like a pharaoh...tress?
He did nick my gowns and such! And lipsticks. Eyeliners. My entire Egyptian toiletries! I don't know about his fashion preferences. Never saw him again after that. This is all I have now. Do excuse me.
Garth: Oh. It's quite an interesting choice of clothing, very revealing. Mm. One question, you are an Egyptian, are you not?
Garth: ðĪ Pardon, that was not a question.
OF COURSE!
Garth: Are you an Egyptian?
I'M MONGOLIAN!
Garth: What?!
OF COURSE I'M AN EGYPTIAN!
Garth: Mm. Then why the "Egyptian toiletries"? I never say "my English crumpet", just "my crumpet".
Hm. I don't know, exactly. Just a reflex, perhaps.
Garth: A reflex. Mm. Tell me more.
Then you're here.
Garth: Ah. Yes yes.
(Garth further assesses the situation with thinking expression. No shirt on. Not a pair of trousers is visible. Cloth dangling. A red cooking pot sits comfortably on his head. Fingers on chin, an elbow is held firmly.)
Garth couldn't be bothered with wardrobe whatsoever.
The Power
That's it.
No radioactive spider, alien lineage, ancient prophecy spoken in a dead language by a dying elder.
No cosmic event involving a solar eclipse and a rare meteorite.
He was simply, thoroughly, and completely strong.
⬆️
Why didn't we see him in a gym doing reps? How did he build those muscles and strength? What's the BACKSTORY?
He was strong from conception.
Amazing! So, his mum and dad were super strong?
They were strong.
Then what's the backstory of his parents?
They were strong. Since conception.
Wow! Grandparents?
They were strong.
All four of them?
They were strong. Nothing else.
ðĪ Hm. Very... aggressively... uneventful ancestry. Strong. What's the origin of their strength?
Strength.
ðĪ
Yes.
Garth's creators apparently looked at each other, nodded, and went for lunch.
Gordon Boshell: Done, mate? (Looks at Dowling. ð)
Steve Dowling: Yes. (Looks at Boshell. ð)
(They look at each other. ð ð)
(They nod at each other. ð↕️ ð↕️)
Gordon Boshell: Lunch, mate?
Steve Dowling: Absolutely.
(They gambol to the pub. ðĪļ ðĪļ)
(They land at the pub. ð§♂️ð§♂️)
Steve Dowling and Gordon Boshell: We are strong! ðŠðĪðŠ ðŠðĪðŠ
(They look at each other. ð ð)
(They nod at each other. ð↕️ ð↕️)
(They order ð and have lunch ðī)
⬆️ They were strong and so was Garth.
Did you notice Garth's face was always different in the comic strip? And the drawing strokes! As though Dowling were constantly furious every time he drew the strip. —
JEEAARGGHH! (SCRATCH SCRATCH SCRATCH. ☠️) Done. Sorted. Lunch. (Calmness occurs.)
Essentially, Garth was a congregation of different blokes wearing Garth name badge.
Which ironically suits Garth perfectly.
The Psychology
Not fine in the modern sense — not:
- quietly catastrophic beneath a composed exterior,
- one traumatic memory away from a complete breakdown,
- harbouring seventeen seasons worth of unresolved emotional baggage.
Actually, genuinely, structurally fine.
No brooding, therapist.
No 3 AM rooftop vigils staring at a city that doesn't understand him.
Garth: By red briefs, how can A CITY understand anyone? It's a city. Mm.
He noticed villainy. He sorted it.
He noticed drama. He did not.
He presumably slept soundly afterward.
Hollywood has absolutely no framework for this. ⬇️
Hollywood: Where's the... traumatic... childhood? Where?
Garth: Hm. Why?
Hollywood: Well, people love that.
Garth: Mm. Quite a claim, that. Just because you, good sir, put that in every film, doesn't mean "people love that". Good sir.
Hollywood: No. La la la.
Garth: Right. I'll go na na na. Let's sing together.
Hollywood: No. Bye.
Garth: Mm.
The Contrast
Across the Atlantic, the American superheroes were busy.
Busy acquiring trauma, mostly. Busy standing in the rain looking troubled. Busy delivering gravelly monologues about darkness and sacrifice to nobody in particular.
Busy wearing a suit worth more than a small nation's GDP, designed by seventeen engineers, maintained by a dedicated support team, and requiring a computer the size of a wardrobe just to operate the left gauntlet.
They were absolutely very busy. No further questions.
Whilst Garth —
Well, sometimes just briefs, sometimes nothing. Just the free air wrapping his existence. — Air. Sorted.
Very Anglo-Saxon, un-Celtic Garth.
The Irish read Garth comic strip and got infected — Mm. Yes. Rather true.
The Scots read Garth comic strip, set down their whisky, and — ... (Pause.) ... (Pause.) Aye. (Back to whisky.)
Hollywood
Hollywood never touched Garth. The reason is singular and requires no elaboration.
Thoroughly, unapologetically British.
British. A Londoner? A Yorkshireman? A Glaswegian? A Mancunian? A Geordie? A Scouser? Each one an entirely different civilisation with their own vocabulary, temperament, and relationship with trousers. WHO KNOWS. Garth is Garth. Thoroughly, mundanely, unpretentiously from Britain. Just not cinematic nor tourism poster Britain.
And it is absolutely NOT the Hollywood-approved "British". Sherlock Holmes, Harry Potter, James Bond, Remington Steele — and, somehow, that chap Hugh Grant — none of them.
Holmes: Yes. Indeed, that tiny clipboard lodged in that gentleman's left nostril tells me that he was dragged by a carriage from... SWEDEN.
Watson: Astounding deduction, Holmes!
Holmes: Indubitably, dear Watson. Sweden. Quite. (Puffs a PVC.)
Watson: How did y...
(Credits roll.)
None of that.
No existential crisis. No franchise mythology, brooding, merchandise hook. Just a sound, strong, sensibly dressed (at times) chap sorting things out without making an enormous fuss about it. — Strong. Sorted.
Hollywood looked at Garth, looked at their merchandising spreadsheet, looked back at Garth, and loudly closed the door.
Hollywood: Hey man, you Garth?
Garth: I got what? What did I get?
Hollywood: GARTH! Are you Garth!?
Garth: Yes.
Hollywood: (Closes the door. Loudly. ðĨ)
Garth: Mm.
Garth: GÅde duru. (Old English meaning "good door".)
The Merchandise Catastrophe
Say, Hollywood took the Garth concept and tried to market it. First in priority: MERCHANDISE.
The merchandising meeting must have been brief. ⬇️
The action figure?
Just a man standing there.
The costume replica?
Pants. Oh wait, underpants. (Shakes head.) None.
The iconic helmet?
There ain't one.
The chest emblem?
No emblem.
How about cape?
No. A towel, maybe.
Anything?
There's that T-shirt.
What's on it?
Nothing. It's just a T-shirt.
Now, what can we sell from this "Garth"?
Well, nothing. But isn't "nothing from nothing leaves nothing"?
Your point being?
Well, nothing.
I'm going to close the door!
Sir, the door is already closed.
Watch me.
ð
(Opens the door. Loudly closes the door. ðĨ)
ððð
THAT! Is merchandise! The door-slammer T-shirt! Imagine the text, "I can." (Squeegee hand movement.) With fire around it.
⬆️ Meeting adjourned.
Garth
He saved the world anyway. Repeatedly. For fifty-four years. The world of his universe, of course.
Very unbothered. Dressed, most of the times. Very mentally sound.
The most grounded superhero who technically isn't even a superhero. Just a dependable bloke.
Strong.
As per usual.
ðž Fear Not
With that bit —
— I just broke the rules and completely dismantled Sir English's entire grammatical empire.
The empire that consists of 0 = plural.
The Singular and Plural
Why is zero plural in English?
Because!
Singular = one.
Plural = NOT one.
Let's distill the entire mathematical logic of English grammar down to an absolute, rock-solid set of equations:
${Plural} = ¬{Singular} = {NOT}$ $1$
Examples:
I have 0 apples! ⬅️ Describing quantity, PLURAL.
I have zero questions! ⬅️ PLURAL.
Zero is a number! ⬅️ SINGULAR, because it's acting as a solitary noun concept.
So "zero" is:
- plural when it's counting items,
- and singular when it's an abstract mathematical concept.
And —
NOT ANY.⬆️ "No" is a shorthand for "not any". Not... "no" is the negation of "any". Yes.
Right. Moving on.
"Any" implies an open, hypothetical set of multiple things, the noun attached to it MUST take the plural form. Said Sir English. ð
So "no" — in "I have no questions." — is consistent. It's a shorthand for "I do not have any questions."
And then we stumble upon $0.5$ metres, $1/2$ a metre, $-10$ degrees below zero, and so on.
Also this, we attach a plural verb to a subject that we've just negated completely out of existence:
There are no questions!
2026 Garth: Well. Still consistent. Plural is not one. Mm. Good door.
But how about "a people" and "peoples"?
"Data", then "datas"? Data is already plural in Latin. "Datum" is the singular form. Same as "media", "medias". "Medium" is the singular version.
2026 Garth: It's called super-plural.
Ah. So.
Look at the absolute double-negative gridlock Sir English just created. ⬆️
- It is NOT PLURAL because Garth just declared it a single collective unit.
- It is NOT ONE because it's a bunch of stuff.
- And it is NOT NOT ONE because it takes "a" in front of it — "a people" — which literally means "one".
Sir English took Boolean logic, threw it into a blender with a double negative, and produced a grammatical state of quantum superposition. A noun that is simultaneously one, not one, and more than one.
2026 Garth: Mm.