Counseling, Comix and Cards

A'right Chachi, I've been refering to my recent output as 'Counseling Comixs' in private as a bit of joke for a while now (Yeah, admittedly not a really funny joke) since they deal with heartbreak and eastenders-style dilemmas, but it's a term which is growing rapidly more apt. For example the recent comic 'A Short Vignette about a Big Love' was an exercise of exorcism for a close friend, the delivery of that story into the public was a way of unburdening himself.

Now it's time to widen the scope and let the public get some of that raw dirty emotion out into a little vessel of an idea I've created. I've been working on a card this week - one which could potentially bring joy into the life of some pasty-faced panty-waist or alternately obliterate their last shred of dignity with the aid of some callous wordplay.

I'd rather it would bring joy though, cos I'm a loving dude.

How is this effect achieved? Well, the first card has been created with a man in mind (not that the female version which will follow soon is going to much different - I just like making cards...) and thusly the imagery and text upon and within the card are geared toward the dangly-er of the sexes(of which unfortunately there are currently only two).

The text within the card is a choose-your-own-adventure of prose, it's best here to use an example as I'll be here all day explaining this rubbish:
could transform into:

I've made a print of 50 tonight and I'm going to be putting them around town tomorrow - In the next update about the cards fer girls I'll post the locations I'm putting them in, however if you do fancy one just send me a message ( and I'll send one out. Alternatively you can just print out your own version using the images supplied in this post.

It'd be really cool if you people sent me your cards with your own messages and I can post them up here, if people bite the best one will get a free comic.

So c'mon you cosmic tigers, start declaring your feelings (positive or negative)

Thickos Modern Life

I can't get anything to work at the minute, all technolgy has failed me over the past week, losing the power of photoshop and resorting to editing in a crap program called Serif Draw which is like colouring in but someone has rubbed porridge in your eyes and hidden all your favourite pens in their arse.

Actually Serif might be alright, it just seems to be setup to confuse Adobe adopters, in fact the initial load-up splash screen is actually an illustration of a wonderfully drawn and coloured hand which is giving the finger to a PSD file.

I'm still pretty seething about how people are so jazzed about things like the Ipad - we should've had that 10 years ago, nowadays we should be painting with our fingertips on screen whilst simultaneously shouting at the computer "COMPUTER! Enhance this image x20, lighten the shadow on the serfs congregating to the right of the Christ-child and add a mild gradient of azure sun on His bare buttocks, immediately! Don't give me that loading bar shite this time." to which the computer would reply in a voice like Roadie or Wheels from Pole Position "Cer-Taint-ly Sir, You Lookin' real fine today!"

Even my simple ol' blog here refuses to play ball - I can't upload any pictures I want to show you. Perhaps you may have noticed the next part of 400 Facts ain't up, well that's bloody Blogger being a right old dick eyes isn't it? I dunno, it might have something to do with the shitty mobile broadband I'm using. Who knows at this point.

It does mean that when everythings fixed it will be update central round this gaff, there's lots to show off coming up...

Now hopefully this simple piece of text will shudder its way down my internet pipe and end up on your screen just so you can read an update which is effectively saying 'Nothing's Working'. I'm not even going to spellcheck this, that's how scunnered I am.

400 Facts ISSUE#1 PART 4


How To Give Up Television The Easy Way

Confession time for all you telly addicts out there; a long time ago I used to watch bad television as a means of sedating myself out of life. It's well documented that in times of despair and destruction people turn to drugs to drown out their melancholy, but me, I flicked onto BBC3 and pumped up the volume on 'Britains Missing Top Model'.

Alone in my high rise bedsit, I'd wake from my usual stupor around 5pm and pop airbubbles in the rotten radiator until freeview kicked on BBC3 on my portable. Then for the rest of the night I'd sit with my eyes pointed down the barrel of my not inconsiderable nose, clad only in my pants, kebab sauce dotting my chest as if the rats had just formed a militia and gunned me down with tiny condiment filled paintball guns.

I'd pull the old faithful mohair rug around me for heat and then later dig welts of it from where it had intermingled with my wiry body hair which, by that stage, began to huddle predominantly around my nipples for warmth (If you were to describe my room as a person you'd use the words 'Bright and Breezy'. Bright - as the curtains didn't pull to and had holes in 'em and Breezy because the walls didn't pull to and had holes in 'em - sadly what would be wonderful human traits really don't make for a good shelter).

It was during an episode of the aforementioned 'Britains Missing Top Model'(a show devoted to finding the most beautiful, physically challenged lady.) that something odd occurred. Wayne Hemmingway, the semi-famous fashion galloot and panel member of the show, was making an impassioned but wince inducing plea to the rest of his peers about how they were all being discriminatory when they booted a disabled model with one arm off the show and kept in another who had all her limbs intact (except her legs didn't work. And they kept forgetting about her at photo shoots, leaving her propped up against walls in the baking sun obscured by smelly old bins.). As Waynes rage increased and his bile soaked spittle flecked out against the sad sack faces of his fashionista buddies, I found myself feverently agreeing with this louche Mancunian prophet, probably pumping my fist languidly through the damp mold air of the bedsit, glassy eyed and exhaling under my breath;

"Yeah Wayne, you tell 'em bud, lets make Britain care again"

Suddenly I was spurred into action - grabbed my laptop and rested it on my gut - destination - the BBC 3 Next Missing Models Web Forums - the only place where my loyalty to Wayne and his self righteous, shite-on viewpoint would be appreciated. I posted under the pseudonym "BedriddenSympathiser22" and argued through the following weeks with all those who would damn a one armed woman and the utopian vison of Mr Wayne Hemmingway. After many heated exchanges with rival forumites (Where are you now CwabbyCwipple?) and a post count in the high thousands, the show came an end, as did my tenure on the forums.


I feel much better nowadays, I have a job, a wife and several cats - I no longer smear kebab sauce on my chest as a stimulant, I eat my kebabs on a friday night like a normal alcoholic. Each day, as I intentionally pass by electrical store windows and catch glimpses of BBC3 idents, I'm reminded of that dark time, what I now refer to as the single lowest point in my existence. Some people huff on a cock for blow - in 2008 I rallied an invisible army of forums posters to the point that BBC administration had to step in and shut us down due to a 'security threat' we posed to the models on the show. The forumites were only joking when they said they'd break her legs - and I 'spose technically she wouldn't even notice if they had done.

As well you know, after the verdict during the highly publicised trial (covered in the BBC3 Documentary "Me, the Model and BBC Three") I was officially banned from watching television due to the unhealthy way in which I conducted myself and incited hatred in others towards minority groups - the Daily Star of course referring to me as "Shit-ler".

And that's how I gave up TV.

Sucks For You

I love staying in on a Friday night sometimes, I call it 'Treat Day' which admittedly isn't a good thing to say to people when they ask you your weekend plans, I think the majority of people I've mentioned it to think I'm talking about pleasuring myself.

That's their problem though, right readers? Y'see Treat Day is all about taking myself out of the running for a bit and giving myself presents like bottles of wine and delicious foods all whilst puffing my ego by telling myself I'm really good/cool.

I like to draw on Treat Day, it relaxes me. Did you ever hear of that artist Paul Klee who talked about freeing the mind by 'taking a line for a walk'? Where you'd sit with a pen and a big piece of paper and just let your hand and brain explore the galaxy of your own conciousness? That's what I like to get into every once in a while. Big hairy bawls pretentious shit like that.

I might post some of that stuff up sometime, but for now just have a peek at this wee doodle I finished off this morning:

P.S I was away this week so forgot to put up the next part of 400 Facts - it'll be back next Tuesday n'er worry pal..

Mo'hair, Mo'money, Mo'Problems

Mums and dads, boys and girls, here's a quick pic for you all before I clamber into bed and rub my body sensually against my 100% mo-hair rug like a hairy Mariah Carey. This may very well be used for something cool in the future but sure I'll tell you about it when I have the clearence:

A Short Vignette About A Big Love

I've been a bit quiet this week, there's a reason for that. A close friend told me a story about a big love in their life recently, it touched me in a strange way kinda eeky deeky way and I thought I'd draw a comic to honour the memory. Here it is in two big dollops: