Batman or Bully, we all hold out for a hero

Superman was dead. The title on the front page of the comic book, The Death of Superman, was almost redundant.

Thinking back, that was the moment that I truly understood what people mean when they say a picture is worth 1,000 words.

The Death Of Superman was, in theory, about an ending but for me it was the beginning of a love of a unique form of literature – the comic book.

Of course Superman didn't stay dead. There was a big, long story about how he was killed saving the planet, buried, mourned and then brought back to life by Kryptonian technology just in time to rescue humanity all over again. It's sort of biblical when you think about it. I've never really subscribed to religion but the morals of Superman, the neverending quest for truth and justice, weren't a bad alternative role model for me.

But in that moment, staring at a graphic novel, the collected edition of a series of comic books, on a shelf in WH Smith, I was transfixed.

Other fans will talk about their love of the artwork, the ability to tell a story in a way that bridges the gap between the printed word and the moving picture, a series of freeze frames filling in the bits that the characters' words and thoughts could not.

For me, it was about the heroes. I was the kid that wanted to run around with my underpants over my trousers. I got my dad to paint over my Thomas the Tank Engine lunch box with a Batman symbol so I had somewhere to store my cape and cowl (well, a balaclava with some cardboard ears held on with safety pins).

This, to me, is no different to the more athletic boys wanting to run around in football shirts emblazoned with the names of their sporting heroes. Their idols were real. Mine were made up. But their adventures thrilled me the same as Eric Cantona, Steve Bull and countless others delighted those who cheered them on.

At the very least, it is harmless escapism to a world where the laws of physics, chemistry and biology do not apply the way they do to us mere mortals.

I must have spent hundreds of pounds on comics, storing them carefully in polythene bags with cardboard backs to protect them, occasionally taking them out and reading several months' worth in one go.

The beauty of comics as well is that they continue, month after month, like a soap opera with colourful costumes and powers. Shy and awkward Peter Parker is basically a young Roy Cropper when you think about it, only with science and skyscrapers as opposed to a café and the Rovers Return.

No-one ever gets old in comic books. If they were set in real time then Batman would be 106 by now.

And that constant continuation, that re-invention and adaptation to reflect the modern world means they are a sort of time capsule for the era in which they were written.

They pretty much have something for everyone, if you can get past the 'geek' label.

Me? I just like to pretend I can solve the world's problems with a snappy catchphrase and a Batarang.

And that the only reason I'm not ripped and buff is I haven't been bitten by a radioactive spider...yet.