Dick Diver meets Penelope Pitstop

It's a been a week of haircuts and haircutting - I've had mine cut and I've even cut a bit of someone elses which went alright considering that isn't my job.

In your cold, hardened grey eyes you'll probably see this next statement and think me a floppy big wet fop, but I must confess that I have a hairdresser that I see on a regular basis. Whatsmore, I believe that all gentlemen should. Women (in general) have been doing this for ages, popping into their local salon for a bit of a cut and colour and possibly a bit of gossip too if they're lucky and after invading this world over the past few years I've got to say it's rather envigorating. My hairdresser is a rather peppy young lass in her early 20's with a fantastic smokey Belfast drawl, peroxide blonde hair and a look of contempt for everybody on her face, which I love in people, especially when it turns out they were just born that way and are actually really nice.

We've really bonded over the myriad times I've been to see her, to the extent where we have begun to confide in one another over semi-serious things. There's nothing quite as exhilarating as someone chopping visciously into your thick welt of matted hair before leaning down, their breasts pushing against your arm, breath thick and wet on your ear "He's a complete bastard, two years we were together, and then he did that to me - I've decided, I'm getting out of here, this job, this fucking city. He can burn."

At that moment I came close to grabbing her and running away off to the Big Country to start a new life. I faltered when I realised our secrets now seemed heavy and awkward, falling to the floor amongst the hair, and I knew, we both knew, that this was as far as we could go. If we walked out of the salon together we'd have found ourselves in grey reality with no more road to travel. Or even a complimentary coffee and copy of the Daily Mail to keep us going through the tedium.


Here's a new sticker I'm going to get printed up shortly - it was to be used for something else but I'm going down a new route with that, details to follow soon.

They Shoot Horses, Don't They?

It's happened at last, that moment that only seems to happen with characters in endlessly deprecating screwball comedies - I've bumped into the Old School Friend who has dropkicked me into touch with the real world. She regaled me with perfectly lovely tales of mutual aquaintences and ex's I'd fallen out of favour with, getting married, buying houses (Who can afford a house? I can barely afford having lunch.), having babies all whilst living the high life in other countries now, trying to forget where they're from.

While we stood fiddling with our milk-lids in the dairy aisle of Tescos, she asked me what I was doing back here again (I swanned off like a big prick to England a few years ago and then came back a little bit smaller but still a sizable prick) and I mentioned that I was drawing now mostly, which was precisely the moment where she realised I was a complete prick. I may have thought I was shopping for butternut squash and cous cous (still got the skills chaps) but to her I was just playing at House, complete with these obviously make believe airy fairy foods in my basket.

Catching this shift in mood my ego swelled to gargantuan levels and I blurted out 'I got offered a job in London so it's going quite well'. She just looked at me like I did a poo in the creme fraiche. I looked a bit of a Mickey Try Too Hard, a tad like a Tommy Trumpet, you know the boastful, deluded type of life's failures you sometimes meet. And I was pretty much lying too, jobs usually offer to pay you don't they?

So next time she bumps into a mutual pal of ours I'm sure the conversation will inevitably go;

"Do you remember speccy Stephen from school?"
"Oh yeah! You saw him did you? What's he up to now?"
"Still wears specs, but he's a complete prick now!"
"He always was!"

When Hairy met Smelly


I've had a rather good day, some magazine asked me to intern with them in big aul shitey London but I don't want to move there plus I wouldn't get paid would I? I'm not sure what interning is aside from a ripe opportunity for a damp squib of a Monica Lewinsky joke. But still it was a treat to be asked and maybe I'll end up doing work for them regardless as I like their stuff.

In other exciting publication news, a lil' valentines illustration which I done is now up on the beatific Bandwidth Website as part of their smashing valentines mixtape with a super cool inlay design by Trisha McNally - go forth and listen and hopefully procreate as a result. I've spent the last few minutes dancing with myself (not a euphemism) to 'Owner of a Lonely Heart' covered by The Flora, The Fauna and 'Love Cats' by Katie and the Can Openers.

I'm off to drink more gin and then head out fer a pals big smash-up birthday - Happy Birthday to him!

The Single Shoppers Scene Is Swinging

I haven't been around since last week, online at least, I've been around in real life - perhaps you managed to catch a glimpse of me spitting in tandem with the big Big Issue lady down at the Europa bus station, just passing the time till I got internet at my new place.

While I was in town I thought I'd head to Marks & Spencer to posh up my new room with a nice houseplant, don't worry lads, I've got my NVQ in "Houseplant Buying and Maintenance" from girlfriend college, so I knew exactly what I was doing before you start to sweat.

I pick out a good looking plant which comes in an attractive little pot, and now botanically satisfied, I set it gently in my basket before scooting my smug hipster 'probably listens to Belle and Sebastian and cries' arse down the aisle towards the fruit and veg section to get something relatively healthy for tea.

After a few minutes of picking up and putting down the same type of cheese I notice that over the course of the past few minutes I've caught the eye of no less than three attractive women, with smiles and everything. "What's going on here then?" the emaciated sex starved part of my brain croaks out - blinking at the light spilling in from the beaming glory of femininity that's just roused it from it's eternal slumber.

"It's nothing. Go back to sleep." I coax back, scared of getting it excited after what happened last time.

After more of this ocular flirtation occours as I pass these fantastic ladies in the aisle I finally hit upon what's happening - it's the contents of my basket that's making these classy, organic hummus easting, fresh flower buying, foreign film watching, bicycle riding, wonderful specimens of femininity all hot and bothered.

I look around and there's no other male in my age range - no competition. There's a barrage of 20-something independent, intelligent women all mulling over pertinent food questions like which type of Italian ham they should buy. I realise I've inadvertently stumbled into the hottest singles bar in Belfast. I then glance down at my basket and discover I have hit upon a Georges Marvelous Medicine style concoction of foodstuffs and homeware to make any woman fake an orgasm with you ON THE SPOT. I shall list them for you now, but please gents - do not exactly recreate this list as the ladies will catch on and our game will be up. Improvise for best results.

1. The Houseplant. A note on this - don't buy flowers, you'll look like you're in a couple, try and buy something masculine, something that looks penis-y.

2. Bottle of nice wine. I know fuck all about wine, but it's important to look like you drink it around women when really you're sat in your cold room licking the rim of a bottle of gin. Another note on this - If you need to buy wine glasses like I did, buy three of them as buying two is a no-no for obvious reasons and buying one makes you look like a hobo. Three is good because it adds mystery - "Why three?" she'll ask herself possibly arousingly.

4. Fruit and veg - makes you seem healthy and virile - anything organic can go in here too as you'll come across all 'Hugh Fearnly Whittingstall' Don't buy ready meals as you like a slob who can't cook. Don't buy ready meals even if you are getting laid though, you'll need to remortgage your house after a month.

5. Balance fruit and veg with a large Chorizo sausage.

Feel free to add your own success stories or suggestions in the comments below and apologies for ending on that Chorizo joke.

Pictures soon.

Domo Arigato Mrs Toshiba

My computer is about to die. When I touch her robust, beetle black outer casing (which is marked and scored from many a physical crash) the screen splinters and corrupts like a budget version of Tron. I've dragged the big lass with me from city to city, home to home, relationship to endless, god-forsaken, unfulfilled, bankrupt, detestable relationship that I've ever had, and now our time together is finally at an end.

I'll truly miss her.

I recall being completely enamored with her big screen and gigantic gigs of ram when I first got her home in 2005, she'd run anything I threw at her, she was so game she'd do multiple tasks at once.

I'm smiling, thinking on the way her fan would huff and puff at night as I forced her into downloading ("Lovely Thoughts") and ("Kittens"), but those balmy summer nights are behind us now. Just the cold winter of the scrapheap ahead.

To be honest with you, more than anything else, I feel ashamed. Ashamed for lying to my mates down the pub about how big her harddrive is, then going home to find her waiting on the bed, only to turn her on and have to delete yet more things I could've done with to get what I really wanted out of her. And I just sat there tutting, looking at my watch. Despicable.

I'm going to have to go, I'm using my sisters computer for the time being. It just feels all wrong.


As a postscript, I would like to add that today marks the two month anniversary of 400 Facts the comic, and 400 Facts the blog. Thank you all for being dears and visiting me here, have a small redesign, a video of my favourite ever song and my eternal gratitude for your readership, updates shall continue to be regular even in these difficult times.

A Night At The Roxy

So. Very. Tired.

Let me tell you all about Kevin's dad

My mind wanders a lot, an old boss called me out all the time for daydreaming when I was supposed to be working. I'm not on the ball, at all, Paul. So it was no surprise to me on Friday in work to find myself at my computer thinking about Kevin's Dad.

Do you remember the TV show 'The Wonder Years'? Cuh! Look who I'm talking to, course ye do, the trials and tribulations of a young Kev Arnold struggling through adolescence whilst the Vietnam War bubbled threateningly in the background, the main conflict cleverly being that of family life through the eyes of a teen.

The character of Jack Arnold had a big impact on me as a young buck, he was the gruff patriarch of the family, the most touching moments of the programme being the times when Jack would show a tiny crack, a fissure in his mountainous range of emotional igneous rock and give Kevin the validation and approval he and his butthead brother so desperately sought.

I sometimes seek that approval too,(as we all do I'd imagine) from the Jack Arnold in my mind. That chastising mental totem that is quick to point out our flaws and mistakes in life, but sometimes, in rare moments will proffer a little bit of self congratulation.

This is what happened in work you see, Jack Arnold, the physical embodiment of this trait came into in my daydream as I sat nonchalently typing into some spreadsheet and complimented me in his own herdy-gerdy roundabout way:

"A real man gets a job, don't matter if he likes it, he goes out and provides for his family, puts food on the table. So suck it up. And get a haircut will ya, you goddamn bum."

So there you have it, Jack Arnold is proud that I'm doing laborious work instead of indulging my dreams, but hey, that's just Jackie for you and I'm a slave to his infrequent pep talks.

Also, I'll have a new special drawing tomorrow - just hafta colour it.

Howdie Doodie

I am the office cowboy.

Shirt & tie. Suit jacket, a half filled ball point poised at a threatening angle in my breast pocket. A whittled down 5 o'clock shadow hints in the creases of my face, a visage well accustomed to the flash of the photocopiers impotent open topped scan of a sweaty TPS report duplicated 3 days too late. The heels of my boots constantly pock-mark the cheap patterned carpet as I thud across the office savannah surveying all that is mine.

"That excel spreadsheet is mine!" I holler. "I should really save that at some point" I then think as it does have some pertinent data that I could get in trouble for losing. Sharpest saver in the west (side of the building) they call me.

A tip of the Stetson to the lil' lady in cubicle 3, a quick 'CTRL-S' on the keyboard and the task is done. No sweat. J'us another day in the badlands.

My CV proudly proclaims "Champion Paper Rustler 2005-2006". It's printed on cow hide. Well paper really, but I had a friend photoshop it so it totally looks like real leather.

At lunch you'll find my hide-out in the shadow of the murky yellow dusk which constantly envelops the cafeteria. I'll be hunkered down beside a camp fire made out of old bic biros and disused shredded paper.

Yessiree, I'm a modern, environmental, forward thinking kinda cowboy. Except when it comes to women.


I'm working on a new drawing tonight, a follow up of sorts to an older picture, with monsters and cinemas and explosions and beautiful women in it, my usual thing. I do have a new idea I wanna try out but I might save it up for a friends project that's coming up so get excited if you're the type of lovely weirdo who does that.

Blast off with the Space Pussies! (This will be my last reference to pussies for a while now, promise)

I start a new job tomorrow. See, I got these bills to pay, or at least I will have many more in the very near future and as much as I want to spend my days drawing all sorts of irreverent imagery I must go out and do something completely unrelated in order to justify this existence. It's a real pisser and a great thing all in one mixed bag of emotion, my days will be spent thinking such well trod existential thoughts as "What's this all about?" and my evening will be spent drawing thinking "Ding Dong! I like this!" while making fast car sounds and pretending my pen is a space laser. I'm a modern grown up you see.

So, if you like the pictures I'm popping up on here, don't fret, they'll still be as plentiful (especially if I can get away with drawing at work, which actually happened in my last job) but my daytime won't be as whimsical anymore. I'm also thinking about starting to do some poster prints of my work if anyone ever liked anything enough to want it on their wall. It'd be fairly reasonable price wise I'd imagine but if interested just comment and I'll look into it.

Here is the end of my most boring blog so far - well done on getting through it, have a really wild picture of space pussies as a reward:


I feel like I've been away for a holiday. This weekend marked the biggest break I've had away from the drawing board in ages and it was ruddy lovely, hanging about with old friends and meeting new people, all while dancing and spinning and reaching toward the heavens seeking libations from the gods (commonly known as drinking Stella).

Amongst all the tip top moments throughout the weekend, one thing I've oddly missed without even realising it, is the party convoy that occurs (sometimes) at the beginning of a night and then again at the end. The party convoy being a mass of people you're huddled together with which then snakes it way through the city, a bubbling contingent of chatter, ideas and bonhomie. When you're part of this mass group you no longer pay any mind to the spides that lurk in the darkness with a cutting putdown about my handbag or my windaes and the streets of Belfast become a wonderful place to be.

Of course if you find yourself constantly embroiled in a party convoy - in that you never spend anytime alone and share a consciousness with at least 3 other people, just watch yourself kiddo as generally these kinds of party convoys are referred to as cults and you'll be substituting beer for Kool-Aid in no time.

Right then, back to life, back to reality. It's time for another drawing, enjoy this poster I've made for a night of music making in the Stiff Kitten: