|(2B pencil on a 139mm x 87mm postcard)|
Monday, 27 July 2015
Saturday, 30 May 2015
|(HB pencil on a 139mm x 89mm postcard)|
It wasn't the blatant fact that she was sat naked in a waiting room next to an invisible man who wore a harlequin hat, bow tie and kinky cod-piece to get himself noticed. Or that there was a hideous, bug-eyed, tentacled monster making sexual advances on her.
No, all this seemed quite normal in her mind.
The point that finally made her realise she was dreaming was that the dragon-headed man had the nerve to be smoking in a no smoking area and she just couldn't accept it.
I mean, she thought, how fucking dare he?!
Monday, 11 May 2015
|(Black fineliner on 125mm x 75mm notecard)|
In the 1980s and 90s, when it broke into the west, manga and animé had a cool factor that nothing else had. It was edgy, underground and subversive. If you read manga, watched animé, or you were a manga artist, you were part of a very select group.
But, those shining gems we were first given from the east were quickly submerged by a tsunami of low-budget shite. Both manga and animé soon became a shameful cliché of itself, further compounded by the flood of hentai which inevitably followed.
Now, whenever the words "manga" and "animé" are mentioned, they're associated with cheesy animation or sex, because that's all they're really worth now. A terrible fall from grace for what was once the coolest kid on the block. It's everywhere and nowhere, and worth nothing.
Even though I used to love drawing manga, this crude, half-arsed example here will be the last manga image I ever draw. Perhaps, one day, it can somehow regain part of that lost credibility, but until then it's nothing more than an unclean dirty whore, an embarrassment to view and use, very much like a sign written in comic-sans.
Sunday, 22 March 2015
|(2B pencil on a 140mm x 88mm postcard)|
They are the Techzeds (tech-zombies) and they're on their way.
First there's a few, then hundreds, then thousands. Victims of an imbalance which devours their minds. The result of high technology dumbed-down too far for the masses to comprehend any of it, or any of the dangers it will bring.
The techzed will become utterly withdrawn from friends, family, and the world around them. All higher brain functions gone as they exist on automatic. The world itself nothing more than an ethereal plane of faceless shadows and lost memories. They will be dead, but the devices which they simply couldn't live without will, ironically, be the only things keeping them alive. Some might say it would be a blessing to switch them off and so end what's left of their miserable lives, but many will be left in their mindless electronic purgatory. A disturbing warning to all who see them.
"Look at them. Isn't it awful? I'll never be like that."
Tuesday, 16 December 2014
|(HB pencil on A6 card)|
I decided to make this into a Christmas card and used photoshopped text on the front and inside. Not something I normally do, but I have to admit that I was actually pleased with how crudely letterpress they looked, although that might have more to do with the crappy printer I have and the cheap printer ink that I use. So if you've received one of these cards from someone, then I hope you liked it and the following seasonal tale contained within....
THE SANTA CLAUSE
I looked on in horror from my bedroom window at the events that were unfolding that night, scarcely believing what I was seeing. I was only six years old at the time, but I remember it very vividly.
"But I was only a child!" pleaded Carrol, as he knelt in the snow, surrounded by Santa and his four elves. "How can I be blamed for something I did as a child?"
"When any child writes a letter to me they enter into a binding contract. I kept my side of the deal by gifting you your train set. You failed to keep your side," Santa explained. "I was very dubious at first, when I received your letter. You weren't exactly the nicest of children, were you?"
"You were a right little bastard!" added Noodles the elf, waving his switch-blade, menacingly, in front of Carrol's face.
"However," Santa continued. "I was prepared to give you a chance of redemption, seeing that you'd promised to be a "very good boy" in your letter." Santa nodded at the elf Flipz, dressed in a bowler hat and fur coat, who took out an old piece of paper with crude crayon writing on it. He showed it to Carrol. It clearly said on it that he'd be a "verry good boy" and it was signed by him when he was 7 and a quarter years old. He was now thirty-nine.
"But you weren't a good boy, were you Danny?" sneered Flipz, putting the evidence back in his pocket. "The little shit that you were, grew up into the big, diarrhoetic shit-stain you are now."
"No, no, I've led a good life!" Carrol protested.
"Bollocks!" blurted out Hudz, who was the elf dressed in a hood and goggles. "You became an estate agent, which was bad enough, but then you became a fucking politician."
"A fucking politician!" Noodles repeated in disgust. "A cunt by another name!" I remembered that they'd been quite colourful with their language, these elves, but Santa seemed fairly relaxed about it. I suppose it was probably because his little helpers did work hard, so Santa gave them a great deal of freedom in how they behaved. Sort of like midget dockers."Please!" Carrol begged. "I promise I'll be good from now on. I promise." Then he just broke down and wept in front of them. They had no sympathy for him.
"You spineless streak of jizz!" said Hudz. "At least take it like a man."
"Try to see it from our point of view, Danny," said Santa. "Take poor Twinkles here." He pointed to an elf dressed in a bobble hat and scarf, which covered half of his face. This elf had been quiet throughout all of this and was a little embarrassed that he was now the focus of attention. "For months, he worked night and day on your train set. He built each and every intricate part of it with his own hands, so that you could have a fully working scale engine with realistic steam and engine sounds. I doubt you even appreciated the weathering on the tracks, or the ornate station and model passengers. All hand-painted by him." He laid a hand on the bowed head of Twinkles, who seemed to shed a sorrowful tear. "He was utterly devastated by what you did with it."
"You swapped it for a cheap, shitty bike!" growled Flipz. That caused Twinkles to totally lose it and he sprang at Carrol, punching and kicking him in a mad, vengeful frenzy. I couldn't quite hear what he was shouting as it was mostly muffled by his scarf, but I did catch words like "twatshite, shit-fucker" and "cuntoid" in amongst it all. Hudz and Flipz managed to drag him off and calm him down.
"Just look what you've done to him," Noodles said to Carrol. "He's a top elf is Twinkles, all the other elves like him. He'll do anything for anyone. You're off the fucking cuntometer, you are," and with that he sliced the side of Carrol's face with his blade.
"I think we need say little more," Santa began to conclude. He then took out a huge handgun from his cloak and pointed it at Carrol, who was still pleading for his life. "Merry Christmas, Danny Carrol." Then he pulled the trigger. At point blank range like that, the bullet practically blew the back of Carrol's head off, causing a disturbing spray pattern in the snow behind him. The elves danced and cackled with glee at the spectacle, then turned to head back to their sleigh. Twinkles held back a while and looked down triumphantly at the body. He then pulled down his scarf and spat at it. I mean, it wasn't just an ordinary casual spit. He took the time to growl up a green one before gobbing it out onto the lifeless corpse. Then he scampered after the others. They got onto the reindeer driven sleigh and all at once it leapt into the night sky from where it came. As I watched it, I saw them all turn to me and wave me goodbye. It was at that point that I wet myself.
All that had happened thirty years ago. I was grown up now, with my own family and kids. Today, before they went to school, my son and daughter showed me the letters they'd written to Santa, which they were about to post. My reaction to it was something they didn't expect.
"No!" I said, grabbing the letters from them and tearing them up. "Never write to Santa! Never, ever, ever!" Both my wife and kids must have thought I'd suddenly gone mad, especially when I then began to eat the pieces of the letters to make sure. My kids started crying and I could see the burning rage in my wife's eyes as I did this. She managed to calm them down as I chewed on the paper and took them to school. I knew that when she came back, she'd kick the living shit out of me for doing that, but I did what I had to do.
Thursday, 13 November 2014
|(black biro on 125mm x 75mm notecard)|
The epiphany of man will be when the last person finally decides to let go of their teddy bear, leaving it to fall, torn and ragged, back into the shadows of superstition from where it was born. A fool's folly, created out of ignorance and fear, will be uncreated under the burning light of knowledge and reason.
Then, and only then, will there dawn the golden age of mankind. When humanity finally arms itself with it's true, unshakable faith. That it is they, and they alone, who are the true gods of their own destiny.
Wednesday, 12 June 2013
|(HB pencil on 140mm x 88mm postcard)|
"He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but there was something that was telling him that his appeal had not gone at all well."
A simple cartoon image that shows both despair and complete resignation to an inevitable fate. When you know, no matter what you do, there's just no avoiding it. It also has the obvious reference to marriage with the "ball and chain" symbolism.
Thursday, 9 May 2013
|(black biro on a 140mm x 88mm postcard)|
The disturbing obsession that the Joker has for Batman always seems to end with him being hurt, one way or another. But, being so criminally insane as he is, he'll always try again and again, because that's the way he does it.
Thursday, 24 January 2013
|(fineliner on a 139mm x 87mm postcard)|
It's not easy trying to find a nude paint-by-numbers set, especially one happily stroking her pussy! They tend to be the "chocolate-box" style image, which is never fun to paint, but at least they got more people painting and introduced many to art.
It's used here to make the viewer think more about colour, even though there's none present, not even a swatch to match the numbers with. It tries to beg the question: "What colour is her skin?" And when this happens, it begins to give the subject something of an enigmatic quality.
But many who see it will have already made their own assumptions as to her colour, for whatever reason that might be. They may even assume it so much that they'll go so far as to disregard it completely and ask: "What colour is the cat?"
Friday, 2 November 2012
|(blue biro on a 125mm x 75mm post-it note)|
With the introduction of total immersion virtual reality will come a secondary option for the suicidal. Rather than killing themselves, they may choose to commit "verecide" (can also be spelt as "vericide"). A word which means killing your own reality. And so, they exchange their miserable lives in the real world in favour of their own personal heaven in a booby-trapped virtual one.