400FACTS

I've moved to Tumblr

2011-08-14T09:09:00.001-07:00

It's July the 12th again which means its time for a distracting draw-in

2011-07-12T03:54:00.001-07:00

The Unpublishables

2011-07-05T17:10:00.000-07:00

This was for an article about the twitter phenomenenenomone the "Jobs Fairy" but was scrapped in favour of something more topical (which you'll be seeing the corresponding illustration for shortly)

Right, I'm off again, I'm having a busy period.

Sea of Love

2011-06-18T11:19:00.000-07:00

You're Lebanese You're Orient

2011-06-04T12:38:00.000-07:00

Something you're going to have to get behind if you're going to fully enjoy the comic on show here is a small piece of film history, I don't mean to talk down to you buffo but maybe some people will appreciate this: (uh spoilers by the by)

Now let's try and understand something else:

Now let's try and understand them altogether:

Now then, that was needlessly convoluted wasn't it?

Music for Sleeping & Waking Minds

2011-05-24T12:55:00.000-07:00

Here's a new image to promote the forthcoming exhibition "Music for Sleeping & Waking Minds" which will involve participants spending the night in an exhibition space hooked up to a specially designed machine that will read the output from their sleeping minds and output it as a beautiful soundscape. I'm really hoping to be able to make it to the London show on the 25th of June (there is also going to be a show in New York that will be happening earlier) and I'll keep you posted as I find out more. I've got the feeling that this is going to be something very special indeed and I've been thrilled to be involved!

Young Guts - GO FOR IT!

2011-05-23T12:05:00.000-07:00

Oh gosh it's really been awhile since I've sat down and really constructed a post but this one's pretty straightforward so much so I'm holding down a job as a small town real estate salesman at the same time as writing this! No commas!

This time around I've been working on behalf on Dublin based band No Monster Club for their summer tour T-shirts and together we've come up with a rather spiffing design, let me guide you through it's development...

What do No Monster Club want on a tshirt? They want fun, natural summer fun! Just like in this video they made featuring GORGEOUS people in stop motions

.

So here I am, having not felt a lick of sun in many a year trying my hardest to craft a tshirt with things that say 'Beach' and 'Summer' and 'Balls'. Beachballs. This is what I come up with intially:

Woman riding a donkey(.avi) was my first touchstone of all things beachin' and NMC seemed to like it too so it developed thusly;

...and then the Tropical birds swooped and formed what I think is a nice balance for the picture.

But I think we'd all agree the text didn't work in this version so a bit more development was required...

...this extremely odd sun came to me one day as I was doodling and NMC liked it so they wanted it incorporated...

Leading to this, the final version!

Which you will be able to buy in their online shop soon! I'll keep you posted.

Real estate job fell through btw, turns out I was just watching Glengary Glen Ross too close to the tv.

The Doo Doo Doos (Nialler9 Illustration Podcast #36)

2011-04-26T17:08:00.000-07:00

Well here it is, the new Nialler9 podcast illustration, I really like this one and by a happy turn of events I think this could be my favourite music lineup on the new podcast, just give the first track a listen by the excellent Tune-Yards (not doing the weird caps un caps thing with their name since I'd risk a hernia) and see if you aren't squiggling in your chair by the end of it. Even my mum likes it apart from 'the bits where she's yelling but I like the doo doo doos'

TRACKLIST

1. TUnE-yArDs – ‘Bizness’ – w h o k i l l
2. Dum Dum Girls – ‘He Gets Me High’ – He Gets Me High EP
3. No Monster Club – ‘The Last Bottle In The World’ – Young Guts Champion EP
4. Earth Girl Helen Brown – ‘I Wanna Do It’
5. Thee Oh Sees – ‘Ruby Go Home’ – Help
6. Star Slinger – ‘Baby Mama’ – Bedroom Joints
7. Lone – ‘Rissotowe 4′ – Emerald Fantasy Tracks
8. Ghostpoet – ‘Us Against Whatever’ – Peanut Butter Blues And Melancholy Jam
9. White Lies – ‘The Power & The Glory’ (Bibio remix)
10. Solar Bears – ‘Cub’ Keep Shelly In Athens remix
11. Abner Jay – ‘Royal Palm’ – One Man Band
12. Julianna Barwick – ‘Prizewinning’ – The Magic Place

duh zone

2011-04-24T12:59:00.000-07:00

Once I've spent all day working on stuff I never feel much like talking or writing. I call it 'the zone' (non caps) You may have experienced this is in your own endeavours in the past, I can't really describe it other than to say it's a long period of intense creativity and concentration followed by accute dissapointment.

Yes a Snake

2011-04-23T11:24:00.000-07:00

So many ways to whine

2011-04-16T03:26:00.000-07:00

I'm sick and missing out on some big fun what with it being Record Store Day an' all. I was hoping to pop down to my local CD emporium and see a spookily good line up of bands and DJs play but no luck for me, I've been brought low by the lurgy, chugging lemsips and ribena from a well worn mug. In my increased downtime I've been mucking around with the follwing three new illustrations, I think they could work well as simple screen prints to make up in the near future.

The Fox and Hound

2011-04-05T16:27:00.000-07:00

Hi, you've already seen todays new picture - its at the top of the blog here, but perhaps you're reading this in the future when there's a different picture up there and you want to know what picture it is I'm referring to. In that very specific case, here is SAID picture:

Also in glad news of tidings I was featured in GO-GO-GO LETS ALL GO BELFAST MAGAZINE later known as GO BELFAST which is now known as GO. It was a really nice piece actually, very tastefully done and gushed right all over this here blog. I suppose that's why I'm sprucing it up really, not for you regulars no, but for the legions of new fans piling in as I type ready to throw their monies and underwear at me.

Not one of you regulars threw underwear at me. Not one.

When it jump up

2011-04-03T17:33:00.000-07:00

Sometimes an idea for an image springs up in my mind with no brief or fanfare, it'll just sit in there like a lil' seed caught in a back tooth annoying me until I expunge it from my head. Here's the latest of such things,

Post Posters Pops

2011-03-21T15:34:00.000-07:00

Some of the more regular and asute readers will have noticed that I've mentioned a screen printing adventure that I've been embroiled in for around 5 weeks now at the Belfast Print Workshop which has been thus far quite marvelous. Tonight I'd like to show the result of my exhertions, don't get your knickers in too much of a twist though, it's my first time so the image is really quite simple (and in fact you may recognise it from a previous post).

I am rather chuffed though, despite the simplicity of the 2-colour image (in fact its better to keep an image like this simple). It's a very technical and physical process but extremely satisfying when it goes right. I'm so satisfied by the thick gloopy, rich quality of the ink smooshed onto the creamy card paper, when I've had prints done by quick and dirty print shops in the past I've been really disatisfied by the print quality but now I can control every aspect of the image I produce and its dizzying (really, I love this shit). Please excuse the poor quality of the mobile phone pics and try to imagine the lustre of a fresh ink on a sheaf of quality card.

I'm considering setting up one of those little internet shops to start selling prints when I've done a few more (and of course I have a few of these so if interested just drop me a mail)

All in all it's an exciting new sideline to explore with new techiniques to learn and different avenues to explore so I'm really excited about seeing where this can go. I'm off for a hot cross bun and a cuppa now, bye!

Welcome to the Working Weekend

2011-03-20T07:50:00.000-07:00

I've cranked out another comic this weekend, after talking to Paddy Brown at the last Black Box Market and seeing all the glorious local comics availble I began to feel a hankerin' to publish my own small press again some time soon, so here I am doing overtime on the weekend (which is pretty usual anyway) putting ink on paper and making perverts sigh with delight the world (well mostly Rutherglen*) over.

Hope you enjoy and remember, as ever Kujo, it's NSFW-

*RUTHERGLEN SHOUTOUT

Essex County Redux & Song Writing Masterclass GLASGAE STYLE

2011-02-27T08:54:00.000-08:00

Essex County is out - there's another comic called that so I don't want to step on the toes of our canadian friends - therefore lets welcome Pacific Palisades, I've just re-worked an old comic that I wasn't happy with (the last panel didn't quite work a'right?) for a submission.

Here's a poster I put together for a pal in Glasgow for a song writing class at the Arches - if you live there and are reading this and want to swap songs with your peers why not pop down.

insides out

2011-02-23T11:52:00.000-08:00

Hurdy durdy dootie doo. I've made a poster for a load of pop bands (they're all a bit like Boyzone ripoffs) for a gig in a couple of weeks, have a look below and sure why don't you attend and then we can talk about how I misled you by telling you they sound like Boyzone (our LORDS AND MASTERS)

Charles Hurts + Cassette News

2011-02-12T06:30:00.000-08:00

I've known Philip Quinn from new hot property Charles Hurts for a while now, he's a lovely effervescent chap with a real raw talent which is steadily being regognised. So it's been a real pleasure to work on the artwork for the inaugural release from his band on Caff/Flick records which can been seen below. Please have a listen at their bandcamp page, if you're a fan of guys like Ariel Pink and his ilk I think you'll get a kick.

Alot has already been written about Charles Hurts and alot of it more coherent than I can surmise as music journalism ain't my forte so I will add an anecdote instead in order to put my own spin on why you might want to keep an eye on this band. Philip is sharp as a pin, not only in his musical talent but in wit too, he is responsible for making me spit up my tea on more than one occasion with his jibes and japes. The best example of which is one time when we were reclining shooting the breeze he remarked offhandedly;

"My arse is itchy......don't worry, it's just the cheek, not the hole"

The relief in the room was palatable. Apologies if you don't think toilet humour funny and I hope we never meet.

Nialler9 Podcast #35 Artwork

2011-02-08T05:05:00.000-08:00

Essex County no. 3

2011-01-31T18:56:00.001-08:00

Noodlin'

2011-01-30T18:40:00.000-08:00

Qu'est-ce que je peux faire? (essex county no. 2)

2011-01-24T15:40:00.000-08:00

ESSEX COUNTY #1

2011-01-18T13:29:00.000-08:00

Every web based comic I've ever seen starts badly* and then gets better. I just keep restarting them. Welcome to Essex County:

*lies

Space Rules, Earth Sucks

2011-01-10T15:11:00.001-08:00

It's 2011 now, I've got a spacey project I'm currently at work on and this is an image I put together over the christmas period to get back in the saddle after a break spent fattening up on After Eights and SPECIAL BIRD (Thats probably turkey to you.)

SAYONARA

Nialler9 Illustration Rundown BUMPER XMAS EDITION

2010-12-22T08:52:00.000-08:00

Here's a few bits and bobs I've done for Nialler 9 recently, he's currently doing a brill job of giving the lowdown on many of the best albums and songs of the year so pop on over for a look...

Brad says 'Hi' from Sunny Cullybackey

2010-12-16T09:32:00.000-08:00

Last week when I was in work I read an article on a girl called Taylor Momsen, I hadn't really heard about her before but I'd heard her name banded about since it's one of those cloying american-y names that people from here end up calling their kids and making them sound like little Brad is fresh from the Valley when really he's from Cullybackey.

Anyway I gulped in this article on my break and was pretty taken aback about how she's been treated by those 'in charge' of her and her career thus far. Rudey nudey videos and fanny shots before she's even 17 and then the realisation of the fact that she's merely being used as a product made me wince a little and generally its quite hard to make me wince.

I started doodling then and began to pretend I was a voyeur sitting in on the interview, taking snap shots of a young teen for exploititive purposes (now you're sitting up) for my gossip rag and then I decided that this teen needed a voice. Albeit a voice in which she unwittingly exposes her own exploitation. It's all very cynical.

Here's the results, Hollywood Interview:

The Digital Socket Awards Ultimate Prize

2010-12-13T15:32:00.000-08:00

Just completed an flyer for the guys behind the Digital Socket Awards, an all Ireland based ceremonial fight to the death after which the victor will be allowed to lay their hands on the Ultimate Prize which has yet to be decided.

Alright it's not that tosh it's this wonderful thing:

"The Digital Socket Awards, Ireland’s first ever music awards event where the contenders are nominated by the public and decided by music bloggers"

Rewarding all your favourite Irish acts for their musicality and videos and design and that sounds fun aye? Well...head on over and nominate whoever you like for best album artwork.

WHOEVER YOU LIKE.*

Here's the pic:

*Only joking sort of.

4HF Unplugged AKA The Clip Show Post

2010-12-07T17:37:00.000-08:00

My fantastico illustratin' housemate casually mentioned tonight that she wished she could zoom in on some of the details of my work, and who am I to deny her such a wish?!? Poor girl was beside herself every time I scrolled the mousewheel up and focused into a new part of one of my drawings revealing yet ANOTHER hitherto unknown realm of eye poppin' delights.

It did get me thinking though that it might be nice to post two early versions of pictures that became smaller parts of larger works and as such made it difficult to see the nice details in them. Gaze now at the Aztec Mer-woman-derson from Isobel Andersons Album cover for Cold Water Songs and the hulking time traveling sound sampling robot thinguamy from Kiani's Metal Kettle album.

Isobel Anderson and John D'arcy at No Alibis December 18th

2010-11-27T15:30:00.000-08:00

Something Something Wonderful Something

2010-11-21T09:39:00.000-08:00

It's been a great few weeks, pretty low on life disasters and social faux pas in general and I've started to get more and more work flying in the door to take care of, I really cannae complain (as much as the natural instinct lies within my athletic testosterone charged frame)

It was my dads birthday today, I made him a little card to convey the feelings and sentiments that I have at this particular time of year for him, I'm not quite sure what it says about him or our relationship or even birthdays but I hope you enjoy the the tropical um bongo stlyed nature of it.

The next picture is a melange of ideas, (which could mutate into a flyer design possibily) that could be tweaked in the future should someone want to lay claim to it for a project they're working on, really it was an excercise in loosening the joints in my fingers and get back into producing high quality work at a high rate of production while I am high.

Next week holds greater delights where I'll be working on a project for an upcoming awards ceremony and then onto a very exciting potentially huge project which I'm not really sure I can talk about. Maybe I'll do a blog about my life in the meantime, y'know something not work related that people can tune into and think "He's alright that kid, I love to hear about the tedious events that punctuate his dreary existence, makes me feel ok about spilling beans on my laptop and not wiping it up for 3 weeks" Yeah I might do that, cos guess what? MY LIFE AIN'T SO TEDIOUS NO MORE.

Walk Out To Winter

2010-11-10T15:43:00.000-08:00

It was pretty slow in work over the past few days, not much happening aside from the scrambled eggs in the canteen have finally evolved into a new form, in that they have a gained a blue-ish tint and developed a gritty cold brains texture, two things which I previously wasn't aware eggs could do.

At points where I got perilously close to dosing off I decided instead to pick up my pen and start drawing a stream of consciousness comic strip. Yea yea Chachi, I know that sounds really wanky but for me it's a fun way to get those little grey cells (scrambled egg flashback..eugh) ticking over and get the creative juices flowing. It also means I don't have to sit down and write something overly laboured and horrid and think it provides a quite a natural, if surreal, comic strip.

Anyway, see what you think below, you can start anywhere you like, there's no real story to speak of, just interpret how you like and (hopefully) enjoy the visual aspect.

Really like doing comic strips again, maybe I should get to work on 400 Facts issue #2 again eh? (Christ can't believe how long it's been since I worked on that...)

Shamans go cripple/My sales go triple

2010-11-05T13:36:00.000-07:00

I'm a tweaker, I'll admit it, love nothing but spending the evenings tweaking away. It's the 'channel mixer' in photoshop that sets me off, all those potential colour combos and the slighest cockup along the way ruins your entire tweak leaving you with an ugly colour vom-palette. I can spend hours moving tiny sliders back and forth, adjusting the amount of magenta or cyan in any given image incrementally until finally I flip, my eyes cross and I have to fight the urge to kill again.

I've been tweaking on this image for new band Hammerbat for a while now, two different versions below - tell me which you prefer, if you're out there (and wish to state a preference, how embarassing if this ends up with no comments I'll have to retire) /reverse psycology

HOT MESS

2010-11-03T17:12:00.000-07:00

It's that time of the month again for me.
Nialler9 podcast day! I'm really digging doing this at the moment since the musics great and I love Nialls style of blogging, he's managed to switch me on to pretty much anything great that's coming out from here and from afar. I always end up listening to streams from there when I'm illustrating so in a way we're entangled in some big ol creative hubbub feedback loop. Oh Yeah, one of those.

This month Niall gave me a list of possible song titles as inspiration and I picked Chromeo's 'Hot Mess' since it gave me the idea of using Lindsay Lohan who is, of course, the hottest fuckup of all, in the biggest mess I can envisage, THE BEVERLY HILLS APOCALYPSE.

Also shoutout and props to Aoife Mc at RTE2 XM Right Click Radio for my own shoutout on the podcast, Hooplah dooplah that made my day!

Tracklisting podcast #33

1. Chromeo – ‘Hot Mess’ – Business Casual
2. Kisses – ‘Kisses’
3. The Phantom Band – ‘O’ – The Wants
4. Chilly Gonzales – ‘I Am Europe’ – Ivory Tower
5. Computer Magic – ‘Science Channel 9′ -Free EP
6. Black Milk – ‘Warning (Keep Bouncing)’ – Album Of The Year)
7. How To Dress Well – ‘Ecstasy with Jojo’
8. Washed Out – ‘Hold Out’ – Life of Leisure EP
9. Gold Panda – ‘Same Dream China’ – Lucky Shiner
10. Evan Voytas – ‘Tomorrow Night We’ll Go Anywhere’
11. Porcelain Raft- ‘Gone Blind’
12. Warpaint – ‘Bees’ – The Fool
13. Lorn – ‘Glass & Silver’ – Nothing Else

Fokken Freaky Fokken Deaky

2010-10-22T07:26:00.000-07:00

Horrah! Horror! Hurrah! My new illustration for Tia Clarkes (she of Tell That Cat to Chill fame)article on strange S. African group Die Antwoord has gone live on the AU website, g'wan have a look! After drawing this I now actaully like Die Antwoord. I have no idea how it happened but I think I might have accidently fallen on my pen while drawing this late one night and it shoved up into my nose accidently giving myself a lobotamy.

Drinking Alone Ends Positively

2010-10-11T15:50:00.000-07:00

I called into the Menagerie, my local of sorts, a Wednesday or two ago and it was pretty dead, just me and the barman. You might think that's rubbish but I love when the perfect storm of an empty bar and friendly barman come together as you can really just kick back and have a nice chat. A nice chat where one of you gets really steaming and then wakes up with a boiled cabbage for a head the next day.

Before I bid him adieu that evening though we were talking about my work and I just so happened (really) to have a load of photocopied doodles that I'd done that day in my bag. The idea with the photocopies was to go into bars around belfast and blue tack the pictures inside toilet cubicles for people to happen upon. It seemed like a really good idea at the time. Aside from that I found out that it's very easy for me to get sidetracked once inside the bar and so promptly forgot my mission up until this point.

I dutifully pulled one of these pictures out of my bag when asked and showed my imbibing enabler and then, rather wonderfully, he offered to put it up behind the bar.

So it's there now, in one of my favourite bars of all time. You'll have to go down there to see it as I haven't got it digitally. It may seem like a silly thing to be excited about but for the whole time I've been going to pubs I always loved seeing what the employees there had stuck up on their walls in their domain - sometimes it's pictures of them on a work night out, other times it's funny newspaper clippings reappropriated to be about a staff member. It's a little shrine back there and I was always jealous of not being able to take part (having never worked in a bar). So for me this was a small victory, do you see?

Oh, you'll never understand me will you! Have a sample of something I'm working on at the moment and probably shouldn't show you because it's A GREAT SECRET

A Knife, A Fork a Kettle an' a Fork that is how you spell NEW YORK

2010-10-05T10:40:00.000-07:00

Here's the illustration I put together for the latest issue of AU Magazine, out now around Belfast and Dublin tomorrow and then the rest of the UK quickly after. This was alot of fun to put together and I kind of went for an allegorical idea for the image as I'm wary of being getting too literal in my work at the minute. Very wary, paranoid even. Now I've started talking like Snagglepuss I'll just end this spiel and show you the pic:

Putting words into my mouth

2010-09-23T18:10:00.001-07:00

I'd really like to put this on a tshirt in the future, should they be saying something? Anybody out there have anything fantastic phrase wise that could adorn such a thing? Should they even be saying anything at all?

I'm tired. And sick. And confused. But I proved that I can still do this kinda thing when ridden with the lurgy.

Moving On

2010-09-18T19:00:00.000-07:00

I've just moved house and it's more wonderful than I can ever have imagined. Already the din of the nightly sins of Botanic have begun to erode in my mind, only to be replaced by the chirruping of the birds in Ormeau Park.

I've already tried to get in with the Ormeau attitute. I've stopped hissing at tramps. I've not seen a single piece of human faeces or one hypodermic syringe yet and I've yet to batter any coked up teens at 4 in morning. If I ride my bike on the promenade-like roads here I have enough space to manoeuvre around BMW owners who seem to think I like the gritty taste of asphalt. I felt so whimsical yesterday I went and bought an ice cream and stood on the street corner in the sun for a while without worrying that some scally might be stealing the oil from my boiler back at the homestead.

Perhaps I'm infatuated, perhaps the cracks in the veeneer of the Ormeau shall appear, but for now, all is well.

There was something in the air that night

2010-09-12T18:14:00.000-07:00

I heard a commotion outside the house tonight, a bit of a ruckus by the spides on Botanic I assume. By the time I get downstairs theres a spainish man I don't recognise standing in the front doorway and a couple of millies punching each other in the street.

"I am Fernando" says the spainard gripping my hand and looking deep into my eyes - "The girls here, ai! They are crazy"

I nod in agreement with Fernando and we stand in silence watching the ugly violence until the rozzers arrive.

As nice as Fernando seems I'm glad to be moving house this week.

Two Big Changes

2010-09-05T16:30:00.001-07:00

You may notice two things. Firstly, that the blog has been redesigned a little. You may also notice that the following image has been tastefully cropped for the main image. You may even of course notice two completely different things but thats just pervy old you isn't it?

Back of the Class Speccy Four Eyes

2010-09-02T14:44:00.000-07:00

Forgive me blogspot, it's been ages since my last illustration.

Had a lovely time last week down at Izzys album launch at the Black Box and it was great to see people loving her music and buying up albums and posters in droves. A lovely atmosphere and ta to all of you that came down. The money has since went on copious amounts of gin and kleenex tissues which we'll split 50/50you'll be glad to know.

I present now, a new illustration for that lovely chap Niall at Nialler9.com - the wonderous music blog of much infulence and respect. In a similar vein to the last job we collaborated on this too is for the brilliant podcast which shall feature some top modern tunes the like of which will become achingly cool around October 12th so if you listen to it now you'll be ahead of the curve and the envy of all friends and maybe even your dad. You always suspected he resented you and now, here, finally is the proof.

The brief for this job was 'Back to School', I eventually came up with the idea that, on the first day back to school most people spend an age preening themselves getting their 'look' down which shall define them for the coming academic year -thusly the image is viewed as if you're a voyeur peeking through the looking glass at familar and not so familar scenes.

Twin Peeks - Isobel Anderson Album Launch

2010-08-22T13:43:00.000-07:00

I got this pal, Isobel Anderson, by day she plays around with various bits of strange and probably evil music manipulation equipment at SARC and by night she writes achey breaky beautiful songs rounded out by her superb soulful voice.

The wee lassie has her first album out this week and I was given the honour of doing doing her album cover which can be seen below:

And I've also done her a special surprise which'll be available alongside the CD on the night of said album launch (event details are here) as it's also her birthday around then too and thought this might be double nice.

So here you are Iz if you're reading this, a nice poster to mark the occasion, Happy Birthday in advance and congratulations! You may also notice some slight Twin Peaks type imagery in there, which is intentional as that night in the Black Box also hosts a Twin Peaks Vaudeville type thing which promises to be really great Diane.

I'll see the rest of you down the Black Box on Thursday night then, I'll be the one with posters stuffed down his pants.

Nay and Yay

2010-08-16T10:08:00.000-07:00

An illustration I put together a few months ago has cropped up again, wuh oh! This time on music journalist Nay McArdles blog, check it out for a top read on the ups and downs of social networking, then click sommore of her links to read more music related goodness. Goodness!

Doodle

2010-08-09T19:12:00.000-07:00

What a Mother

2010-08-05T16:48:00.000-07:00

Gonna be brief tonight, I feel the effects of hayfever returning (went away for 2 months and is now back with a vengance, what a mother) and I keep screwing up my face in a sneezey way which is simulataneously very unattractive and very annoying, so I'm off to chill.

Speaking of chilling check out this header that I put together for the blog 'Tell That Cat to Chill' - an ace new music blog, check it out:

and here's a thing i just did tonight, a bit of a mess around from a doodle I was working on today:

And with that I'm away, sneezing into the night! Ho!

Lambrini Girls vs Barcardi Bruiser

2010-08-01T13:08:00.000-07:00

I was sitting out on my balcony last night which overlooks Botanic Avenue, the sunset strip of Belfast, when out of the corner of my one good eye I spied a convoy of lambrini girls honking up the road, skirts hitched up to the tops of their robust thighs in order to increase their offroad mobility (my street is full of hazards like breeze blocks, car husks and laid out methheads y'see).

Suddenly a bunch of lads clad in one giant short sleeved Ben Sherman shirt appeared at their rear and insisted that they should, completely understandably, be treated to the sight of all the lambrini girls' arses.

Only one of them obliged though, shoving her bottom into the very flattering light of the orange streetlamp and emittied a high pitched yelp whilst the Shermans got their camera phones out. Then she pointed to her knickers, the saddle of which was emblazoned with the Barcardi logo.

"I'm a Barcardi girl y'know!" she yelled at no one in particular, bent double on the pavement, her manicured nail pointed up at the gusset of her pants. The Lambrini girls mowed on down the street without her, not impressed with her sudden betrayal. The following picture is dedicated to her. It's called Botanic Nights.

Twenty Seven

2010-07-27T05:37:00.000-07:00

Kiani - Metal Kettle

2010-07-20T14:11:00.000-07:00

Katrina O'Kane is a wonderful lass from Belfast with a great set of ears. She's also known as Kiani when she uses these ears to put together some of the finest psychedelic electronica that I've come across in this cosmos. It is also imperitive that I note that she also owns a very very tiny chinese hamster who reportedly begins to nod along in appreciation when her bedroom beats come into fruitition after her many hours of toil. In every facet of her work Katrina is inventive and always creative, looping in and out and around and sideways, never giving away where you'll end up sonically - all of which is no doubt the result of her time spent tweaking and fine tuning and setting the listener on an audio adventure.

Head over to her soundcloud page or her myspace to find out more and have a listen, also check out the first part of my illustration below which I completed for her forthcoming mix Metal Kettle which we're hoping to drop around hyper hip establishments soon in order to become rich.

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You can now follow my exploits on Twitter, givus a chance to impress you in 160 characters.

POSITIVE WINKING

2010-07-19T17:02:00.000-07:00

I'm exhausted from the weekend and I didn't even do anything. I watched a film, that was about it. Ate a large pizza on the sabbath, that mighta done it. I was a wreck in work, so tired I had to type one handed in relays alternating between my left and right, in order that one hand be delivering constant massage to my brittle limbs. I can feel cold nipping into my joints and a concept of a wheezing cough has just been pushed through to the development stage by the higher level guys who work in the complaints cortex of my brain.

It's my birthday next week and it's reached the stage where the numbers are getting too big. 10 is good. 10 was a great number, I remember when I turned 10 and running the number through my mind ONE.............ZERO.........ONNNEE......ZEERRROOOO. It felt big, important, resonated around and hummed in the air like when you heard it on Seasame Street. 10!

Twenty Seven. 27. Twenty Seven sounds terrible. Sounds disappointing. Sounds like the number of pounds I have in the bank. Sounds like the name of a shitty ad agency with a bad logo.

Here, I'll put it in a sentence for you and you can decide whether it sounds good or not:

The massacre in the jungle was revolting, all twenty seven bodies lay boiling in the sun, their guts fizzing and hissing with pus, their blood turning the dry earth into an undulating bog surrounded by a dense wall of foetid insects feasting on the twenty seven corpses.

See? I used it twice there for effect, just in case you missed it the first time.

I cheered myself up today by doing a little mess around with patterns and colours though so I'm not really all doom and gloom, I'm only saying all this shit so that the following picture radiates positivity.

Orangina

2010-07-15T15:38:00.000-07:00

I was hoking through my old stuff in my bedroom at home this past July 12th weekend in a fitful state of boredom and in a similar case to my fav blogger Tuesday Kid, I came across a diary full of adolescent emotional vomit from when I was 17, which, weirdly enough was started 10 years to this very month.

It was all a bit embarrassing if I'm honest. In order to give you a taste of how inward looking and narcissistic I was (well aware of the irony of writing that on my blog where I talk about myself btw) here's a choice quip from September 13th 2001

[This entry was three journal pages long and this quote is the very last paragraph]

"...Oh and I should mention that some terrorists blew up the Twin Towers in America a few days ago, could this mean war? I really hope not as I feel I've only just started to live, there's so much more to see, I want to do so much with my life..."

Several pages of teenage angst followed by this vile summation of a world changing event in which many people perished and all I could think of at the time is whether I would ever get my hole...

It's a very introspective time of year here and by that I mean that its a time where we all stick our heads in the sand, thats what I was doing at least. I don't feel too hot about it.

Niall Niall Nine

2010-07-13T10:03:00.000-07:00

This was produced for the h'award winning Irish music blog Nialler9 to help promo the rather fantastic monthly podcast Niall puts together over there - check out the blog yourself, it brings together music from this fair isle and the best of the rest of international new music. Also the latest podcast has some really great tracks on there, the new one from HEALTH is really top.

Niall also tells the tale of how this image came into fruition, and he's spot on, it was indeed inspired by a crazed, metal loving taxi driver who wanted nothing more than to rock out to AC/DC and tell me that all the music I liked was sheeeite. The podcast should see to him then.

Besides this great bloggin news, I also have a big backlog of stuff that I've done for other people out there but can't show it for a week or so yet, so stay tuned for further music related illustration coming up!

That's Good

2010-07-06T13:42:00.000-07:00

My housemate/gal Friday says he was looking at old photos of me online the other day.

"Not in a sinister way" he added, slightly too quickly, and I saw his eyes dart to the left which as we all know from Derren Brown is a sure sign of fibs being towled (either that or there was something happening very quickly in the peripheral of his vision.)

"It was funny" he added after an uncomfortable beat "You look really different from just a few scant years ago, I couldn't believe it - it was like looking at someone I didn't know"

With my inbuilt Ego-stroking radar activated I look for my chance to avail of any incoming compliments about my (now maturing) looks as I slide into my late 20s - "I look...better Than a few years ago, right?"

A lengthy pause blooms in the conversation between us, causing a gulf of silence to bloom in the gap between us. In the dull quiet of my room I hear a car skitter off down the road past the window, the whinnying engine gradually ebbing away into the hum of traffic in the distance.

"No-you-just-look-different" the words slosh out of his face quickly and rain down on me. I purse my lips together tight and don't look up at him.

"Different" He again stutters, softer this time, as if trapped in an infernal loop.

Then he slips out of the room and I'm looking at old pictures and reaching for the gin and then maybe weeping and wondering what happened to my youth and its my birthday again soon and I should get around to all that stuff I meant to do and whatever happened to the years 2002-2008 what happened to them..

***

So anyway, I'm going to have to teach my housemate what to say whenever the inevitable happens and he and his girlfriend have a similar conversation in the future.

So many words about so little

2010-07-05T13:19:00.000-07:00

Work grinding you down? Your boss giving you a hard time? Co-workers constantly harping on about their putrid children? Is Facebook blocked? Are you blocked?

In order to break the monotonous routine I've come up with a few things you can do to turn a waking nightmare into a paralysing trance (which is marginally better)

1. 'BREAK-TIME ADVENTURE GAME™'

RISK FACTOR: Low
FUN FACTOR: 6/10

In order to play 'BREAK-TIME ADVENTURE GAME™' you'll need access to an unmonitored email account and an understanding and willing co-worker who will indulge your childish whims. In order to begin the game you first need to grab a random image from the 'net and then write a descriptive passage about said picture along with the potential for a developing storyline, characters and various actions that will transpire within the 'game'. (Admittedly this is alot of work for your tea break and some might argue that you've just swapped your regular job for that of a 3rd rate Hollywood scriptwriter, but no matter, truth is your imagination is your only escape from monotony - go wild) You will then email this off to your lovely co-worker who will then write back about what actions they will undertake within the scenario you've just created. Here's one I done earlier:

2.Whistling

RISK FACTOR: MED
FUN FACTOR: 10/10

"Thassit bitches - whistle while you work"

The inspiring words there of a certain Mister Walt Disney which eventually made its way, unfortunately censored, onto the big screen. It's a sentiment that still resonates with me today, as I whistle my way up and down the offices corridors and in and out of the elevators and round and round the ventilation system as I clamber through them on especially dark days.

Try it yourself.

3. Form an Elastic Band

RISK FACTOR: HIGH
FUN FACTOR: 8/10

Become the Office Cowboy.

Once this trick is perfected you are now able to take your like minded co-worker and have High Noon style stand-offs in the fluorescent glow of your crummy break room.

4. SNIPER

There's a sniper in your building - an imaginary one of course! Haha! This is a game for two+ players. During the course of the day someone is going to get pretend-sniped through the skull by a disgruntled former pretend-employee of the company.

You lose the game when sniped and this is achieved when a co-worker who is also playing the game shouts or mouths the word 'SNIPER' during the course of the working day. you are then obliged to make the necessary screams of pain and emulate brain tissue exploding from the half of your face which has been pretend-blown off. Combine SNIPER with game 3 for ultimate arousal. If you do not comply to the call of 'SNIPER' you have lost and are 'a dick'.

Risk factor is high during crowded meetings when calls of 'SNIPER' are most likely to occour.

Fun factor is low as you have been working in your office for far too long and the game of SNIPER is really just a cry for euthanasia.

Common

2010-06-08T12:54:00.000-07:00

I was just looking at what people search for on google when they swing by here using this fancy blog analytic software.

Some of the best so far are:

1. "Men Wanking"
Get the porno one out of the way first, my fault for bringing it up really.

2."What is a perma-scowl?"
FYI It's a permanent scowl that manifests itself on the faces of those that work directly with the public.

3."problems with vimto"
How do you have 'problems' with your syrupy delicious hot vimto drink? I bet you spilled it on yourself naked or something, the mascot isn't called Purple Ronnie for nothing y'know

4. "http://missingmodels.blogspot.com/"
Worse than number 1.

5. "single in belfast"
More depressing when it's typed in lowercase like that, isn't it?

Thanks for stopping by though, even though you probably didn't find what you were looking for hopefully you enjoyed the pictures.

Dream Job

2010-06-07T17:51:00.000-07:00

400 Facts Issue #1 Part Seven

2010-06-06T12:08:00.000-07:00

Part 6 is HERE

Twit Two

2010-06-06T11:36:00.000-07:00

Dinosaur illustration for Bandwidth
Paint Owl for fun

Altered Images

2010-06-06T10:07:00.000-07:00

I got an invite to a big ol BBQ birthday bash the other night as I was asked to illustrate at it, which was very exciting, figured I'd make the birthday boy a poster before going - here's the results:

Aii Aii Aii poppy

2010-05-25T09:45:00.000-07:00

I always go a bit weird when the summer months jump out on me unexpectedly. It's like some brilliant surprise party where all the fun months are hiding behind soggy aul April snickering and nudging May in the ribs cooing 'not yet...waitforit...NOW!' and then suddenly, while you're wringing out your sodden jacket in the rain clogged gutter, the sun appears and with it leaves and flowers and mohitos and parks and dogs and girls legs on bikes and bald men in groups wanking each other off conversationally about said legs on bikes.

I go a bit weird though because I find summer a challenge, after living for 9 months in a world which wobbled between black and gray on the colour spectrum its hard to adjust. For a start there's a whole new etiquette to learn when out and about, its disconcerting even finding the actual act of being out and about pleasurable as opposed to running awkwardly everywhere through the freezing sloppy rain, head bowed low to the curb assuming the position of what could only appear to the sheltered bystander as some kind of athletic masochistic genuflection.

Walking through town today I saw a load of buff chaps with no tops on which sent me into a tizzy as well you can imagine - I haven't spent the intervening dark months down the gym, as the only 'toning up' I've done is meeting up with my pal Tony for boozy gin parties. They've got their summer attire sorted those guys, I'm envious, but it's not the route for me and as a result I dunno what to wear at the minute. I've still got a wool jacket on and I'm not sure but I think everything I own is made of wool or is at least 65% wool.

I'm not even sure I remember how to exist in a park properly. Sitting on grass is baffling as I have an almost pavlovian response to my arse approaching the green stuff as in the past its just been the deceitful layer of concealer to the dank brown muck underneath. Even if I manage to plop down there a whole new set of tricks must be brought into play - tuck the legs beneath my frame (pins and needles city) or cross the legs (to ward away fairy nymphs and 16 year old spides) - I might just lean against a tree and nervously fiddle with the USB stick in my (wool) jacket pocket - grass stains are a concern of course and what time does the park generally start at?

It even gets tricky identifying women you used to know in this weather, it's like all the gray ashen faced girls you were pals with were shipped off over night by the council (That's why they've been charging us 50 quid for dropping fag ends everywhere) and we just imported half the cast of a Will Smith video.

So if you see me bobbing up and down doing squat thrusts over a patch of daisys down in Botanic Gardens over the coming weeks be sure to approach me slowly from a 45 degree angle (like the Horse Whisperer) - take my hand in yours, coo soothing sentiments into my ear and slowly remove my woollen shirt, tie and trousers before bringing my bare bottom to rest on scorching Terra Firma.

P.S Here, I'm still having trouble uploading pictures because of my shitty internet - which is crap for an illustrated blog really - I'll try and fix this soon, not that its a big issue for you or anything. Don't be worrying.

400 Facts Issue #1 Part Six

2010-05-18T10:16:00.000-07:00

It's been awhile since I done a blog, been busy drawing shitloads for allsorts of chaps innit. Anyways next part of 400 facts is here at last.

and as a bonus check out my recent illustration published in AU magazine

400 Facts Issue #1 Part Five

2010-05-04T12:29:00.001-07:00

Part four is here..

Counseling, Comix and Cards

2010-04-29T11:12:00.001-07:00

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 (halloleftovers@googlemail.com) 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

2010-04-28T12:49:00.000-07:00

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

2010-04-20T14:04:00.000-07:00

PART THREE IS HERE

How To Give Up Television The Easy Way

2010-04-20T09:31:00.000-07:00

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.

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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

2010-04-17T06:10:00.000-07:00

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

2010-04-12T10:59:00.001-07:00

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

2010-04-08T17:59:00.000-07:00

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:

400 FACTS: ISSUE #1 PART 3

2010-04-06T17:38:00.000-07:00

Part Two is here.

Don't Be Late For The Poster Parade

2010-03-31T17:37:00.002-07:00

Ok Hondo, here's a new poster I've just finished for the lovely boys/Belfast based - Omagh bred band Colenso Parade. Check out the new single on their myspace and 'ave a bluddy dance;

400FACTS: ISSUE #1 PART 2

2010-03-30T14:11:00.000-07:00

Part one is here

The Best Laid Plans of Mark Albert Fowler and Stephen Maurice Graham

2010-03-28T05:58:00.000-07:00

Mark Fowler leaned over the expletive scored table to whisper in my ear, his leather jacket lightly pressed against and tipped his half full pint glass on its edge as he talked, I couldn't take my eyes off it, worried it might fall at any second and ruin our peanuts. We'd already had a bit of hassle from Peggy Mitchell this afternoon for splashing our pish all over the Queen Vics toilets in the frivolous way only drunks can muster.

"It's foolproof innit?" He gushed down my lughole, at which point I snap out of my pint pot piss reverie and looked him dead on in the eye, tuning back into the world around me.

"But you're dead" I said, searching his eyes for a soullessness, something inhuman, but he seems at this point very tangible. "You've been dead for years, Pauline was so worried when you left, it destroyed her - she eventually became a caricature of herself."

Mark ignored me and popped a peanut in his mouth, crunching it round his mouth, savouring the spicy prawn flavour. I had to admit they were pretty good, each time I had one I fell deeper into a surreal fug trance that rattled my head and left my stomach a scorched desert which could only be tempered with more of these pints of alcoholic Orangina. The more I had the more sense Mark was making. I watched his tongue flicker over his wonderful grin, it was very rare to see him this happy and I was glad for him. At one point he took off his mole and let me try it on.

"Keep it mate! Suits ya!" He blared into his pint before sinking the citrus dregs.

"It does look good, but I can't take this from you Mark, it'd be like stealing your indentity." and then popping it back on his cheek delicately, I said sincerely; "It really adds a European balance to your face - without it you'd no longer be the Serge Gainsbourg of the East-end." He looked up and gave me his trademark doe eyes and sad-smile-that-says-it-all and I felt that we had achieved a closeness not felt since last we shared a peanut all those hours ago.

"I'm serious Steve, this plan, it's foolproof." He grew dark, his eyebrows knitting in huge semi circles around his watery pin light eyes. "We loan ten grand from Phil Mitchell, reinvest it in a business of our choosing, perhaps a..."

"Cake shop" We both said simultaneously. Yeah, this plan was getting good.

"Yes mate, a cake shop is perfect." He continued "We set up and run the cake shop ourselves with Phils money, but we don't pay him back, we just tell him to fuck off" I was elated, I'd never heard Mark swear before and it made the plan seem daring rather than foolhardy.

"Won't Phil beat us up for stealing his money?" I said, before popping another prawn peanut in my gob.

"Nah, he's a pussy now without Grant to help him out, we can take him."

"Yeah I guh hess houuurrr aiiiiight" I slurred. My jaw was melting off again, couldn't chew these damned nuts, I was on my way out.

At that moment the doors of the Queen Vic flickered open like an eye lid and before us stood Mr Puffy-jacket-puffy-face himself, Phil Mitchell. Time was beginning to condense. Everything that Mark had said seemed to have already come into being. We had made a cropper of Phil Mitchell. Blimey.

"You've bleedin' ripped me orf" He growled at Mark. He cast a withering glance at me holding the foam of my jaw in my lap before slowly working his disparaging gaze back to Mark who still seemed buoyant despite this turn of events.

"What're you gunna do Phil? Go to the Police? Beat us up? You're pathetic." Mark was standing now, right up in Phil's podgy idiot face. "You. Can't. Do. A. Thing." with each word he prodded Phil harder and harder in the chest. As he glared at Mark his face went a deep shade of pink, he looked like a prawn who'd dressed up to go to a Right Said Fred concert.

With the last prod Phil bubbled over and exploded in Marks face.

"OH YEAH?! Listen Fowler - If you and your fizzy mate there think you've got the best of me you're dead wrong. I know your game, a bleedin' cake shop?" He laughed a grave chuckle and wiped the tip of his nose with his thumb. "If you fink that you'll use my cash for a cake shop round here you're seriously mistaken mate. You know what they say about cake shop tables don't yah?"

"What's that?" Mark spat, in an effort to seem composed.

"You saw off one leg, then another, and then maybe another and the laws of physics bring the table crashing down ruining all the cakes on top."

It was a laboured, bewildering threat to be honest, but effective, Mark was now ashen with fear. The cake shop dream was scuppered. Mark looked to me for support but I was losing my grip on this reality due to the slow sound of drums which began to pummel the scene, making everything resonate. Phil turned to look at me now, followed by Peggy at the bar and then the rest of the patrons swivelled round in their chairs. Even the bust of Queen Victoria turned to stare as my form turned to foam jelly.

"Gut Booer Gheaddd" I said to Mark before half of my head slid into the ashtray and everything went black.

Killer Prawns and Hot Vimto

2010-03-27T04:08:00.000-07:00

I love prawns, slimy little curly wurlys with their souless coal eye pocks and knobbly white innards that put up a meek, juddery janky resistance when biten into. I must've eaten scores of them over the years, in curries or stir-fry or sandwiches. I've pushed it too far though, yesterday I had a thai prawn sandwich, and have felt ill ever since.

I've spent the last 19 hours in bed, the illness being the main reason, but closely followed by a maddening descent into despair over my masticatory future with the humble prawn. Is this it for us? I don't know if I can face a life without shellfish.

To distract myself I've been thinking of my pal Simon S Misra and how we used to laugh and joke about prawns together. I'm not even pissing you here, we really did, but I can't remember any of the jokes since we were probably drunk. I'm going to post an old story I wrote about our time together and hopefully it will illustrate to you the wonderful, gentle, ruddy funny nature of Mr Misra and take us all away from thinking about sickness and prawns..

Vimto Afternoon

I get on my bike and free cycle down the hill through Paletine and then onto the dual carridgeway into city centre where I always go past this bit which is blocked off to cars but bikes can go down and on a sunny day you'd swear you were in L.A, or at least the parts of L.A which you see in movies or sitcom stock footage seques with its spagetti junctions and billboards and the like, and for one very brief instant you could forget where you really were.

Today though, its raining again, the drops feel like tiny barbs on my gloveless hands, my knuckles tiny white lslands surrounded by a sea of angry red and frosted pink. I pop one hand, Napoleon like, into my coat making a mental note not to do this when cylcing through the estate in Hulme as i'm liable to make some poor soul thnk they're about to get shot.

There's no rush on to meet Leonard, he already texted before leaving that he was going to be late so I take my time, peddling slow and sloshing through dishwater puddles.

Eventually buildings hove their way into view through the thick grey grease fog and suddenly i'm at the bar without even really thinking about where I was headed.

Pulling at the wisps of his thick black beard, giving his best faux mournful look to the outside world, Leonard is sat at the bar nursing a barely touched pint, although to be honest it's likely to be his second.

I slosh my way over and he turns to look for the source of the squeaking sound my trainers are making on the pockmarked marble floor.

"Hot date with poseidon?" he heckles as I near, great white teeth snaking out between the strands of Wile. e. Coyote beard.

"I may not look it but I'm gasping for a drink" then getting the attention of the barmaid I order a matching pint.

Leonard puffs his cheeks together and pops his eyes wide following the girl the length of the bar till she starts pouring the Stella. He slowly turns his pufferfish gaze back onto me and then exhales a cool jet of air in my face. He must fancy her.

"I've been trying to make moves with her for a while now. Shes quite fit."

I've seen her about here before too and when you look at her properly, she is beautiful, her hair is dyed deep cherry red, pulled proudly back revealing very charming sticky out ears and perfectly khoaled eyes. You have to catch her when she's scowling though or else the effect of placing your hopes and desires upon her isn't quite so devastating.

"I tried to do the same a few weeks back' I say, turning my gaze back to Leonard finding him still tugging on his hair. "I couldn't think of anything else so I just talked to her about the flowers"

Looking unimpressed Leonard pointed to the now empty blue vases set amongst the debris of the bar which usually contained a fresh bouquet. I nodded ruefully as his face lit up with his galactic smile. As the barmaid did another lap he quickly caught her attention;

"''Scuse us, me and my mate were wondering, whatever happened to them flowers from the other week then?"

Simon has his own new blog here

ISSUE #1 - Part One: Dedicated to people of Rutherglen

2010-03-23T11:53:00.000-07:00

I've just noticed that I'm big in Rutherglen, just outside Glasgow, gettin' a lorra views from there. I don't even know anyone in Rutherglen but I'm sure it's full of lovely, sexy and vital folks.

Well done Rutherglen, I'm going to come over there to live and as I walk down the street you can shake my hand and say 'Great blog Steve!' then pull me close before chanting 'I always knew you could do it Steve' and then later 'This is your baby, aren't you even going to acknowledge your own child? Look at me, LOOK AT ME'.

Also today is the day that 400 Facts marks its debut on these pages, without further ado lets get stuck in.

400 FACTS ISSUE #1

PART TWO IS HERE

BLACK BOOKS

2010-03-20T08:37:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow, Sunday 21st March is the Black Books market hosted by the lovely folks at Trans in the beatific Black Box and I'm going to be down there selling comics and pumping my fist at all customers who purchase one, also I'm hoping to have a limited run of postcards with a few of my prints on it and maybe posters too if I can get that sorted in the next few hours - whups!

Anyways, c'mon down have a pint or a coffee and a bun - there'll probably be vids on zine making in the main cafe and in the main hall all the book sellers will be chillin' with their leather bound copies of Fitzgerald and Trollop. It'll be wheaker pal.

Facebook group here

Blogpuss

2010-03-19T11:57:00.000-07:00

Here's a comic I made in work, its a stream of consciousness draw stream of puerile nonsense but read it up anyway for your tea. A funny thing just happened, I turned to my housemate "Rodin Gaugin" and asked him what I should title the blog and he replied "BLOGPUSS" to which I splurted with punning excitement "Brillo!".

Turns out he had just misheard me say 'Blogspot' and was repeating what he thought I'd said. We're now discussing how to write this in the blog itself and its all getting a bit existential. Bye!

Don't Cry For Me Ballymena

2010-03-15T16:50:00.000-07:00

Tonight, after sitting out my window ledge balcony thing with a smoke and a glass of vino, I looked to the stars and was struck by their radiant incandescent beauty which immediately made my thoughts turn to the plight of Cheryl Cole and just a tiny bit about poor wee starving orphans in places like Darfur. Here is a pie chart to illustrate:

Soon after a drunk homeless man called me a cunt and threw a pen at me and I scarpered back in a little the worse for wear. He was right though - my ethos is all wrong these days, my priorities back to front. I took his pen and wrote myself a new mantra and also made a note on a post-it to remind myself to get my old mantra lasered off ASAP.

Dearest reader, although these incidents seem completely irrelevant to what I'm about to say they both helped usher in the new eon of 400 Facts PLC - the comic is going to be made free on this-a-here blog. Just for you.

To those of you who have bought a copy, please get in touch with angry emails and I shall offer you a special prize for having bought an ish that no one else will get. The first issue will still be for sale and the second issue will also be collated into a hard copy once its done but it will simultaneously be available online fer free like. A new page of the comic will be posted every Tuesday so you'll have to be spry, eagle eyed and piquant of mind in order to follow along.

This way I think I'll be fully realising the potential of both the blog and the comic. Now if you'll excuse me I have to go practice my mantra before work tomorrow..

The Pedant

2010-03-11T15:45:00.000-08:00

And again with the potentially litigious comics. I gotta go do proper drawing stuff now..see ya champ!

ecoutez et repetez

2010-03-10T16:15:00.000-08:00

G'night!

A Wrist Led Development

2010-03-09T14:52:00.000-08:00

Changing the format up again this week, read it and weep.

(Once you've clicked this image, if you need to make it bigger hold down Ctrl and press the '+' key or use your mousewheel - but then you're not an idiot you already know that)

Smoke gets in your pies

2010-03-04T16:26:00.000-08:00

It's been a dreadfully quiet week, I've stayed in, drawn a few things and ate a really nice Pieminster pie which I found when I took myself out for a late night cycle trip to Forrestside. Upon getting home, I slobbered it up with mushy peas, brown sauce and a cold tinny, probably burping as I went, which provided my weekly dosage of overtly masculine behaviour - I then retired to the living room, put my feet up and patted myself on the crotch and told myself I was a good lad.

The fact that I haven't gone out anywhere socially in the past few days has had a weird repercussion in other, usually more innocuous areas of life which I've tried to spice up in lieu of hanging out with friends. I went out for a burrito tonight (this week is evidently rich food treat week) and as I was ordering found myself repeatedly asking the girl serving me a lot of inane questions.

The conversation faltered repeatedly when she insisted that we stop having it and suggested that I order something instead. "What kind of beans are those?" I said languidly, in my best Masterchef drawl, my tone suggesting that I knew exactly what they were, but didn't quite understand what that specific type of bean was doing in amongst the sweetcorns, guacamole's and salsas, as if their presence was an offence to my attuned bean sensors.

I don't think she picked up on my clever, suggestive, conversational nuances as she just replied simply; 'Pinto'. She didn't even say it with an accent, just her normal Belfast cadence. I know if I worked there I'd put a bit of pizzazz into the word and maybe follow it up with some kind of wicked cool hand gesture. I just nodded sagely before moving on to proffer my opinion on differing salsa strengths ("Y'know baby, medium isn't medium anymore, it's more like mild, and strong is too strong - don't even get me started on people who go for mild its not a sauce it's barely even a flavour more gas than liquid y'get me love?") which she looked vaguely depressed by as at this point I still hadn't ordered anything, and quickly after she looked like she was choking back tears. It may have just been the mild salsa gas getting in her eyes or she may have realised that she was wasting her life talking to condiment pedants like me.

Pinto!

Butter

2010-03-02T16:26:00.000-08:00

Changing up the pace of the blog this week with a short story. What's that? No! Of course plenty of interesting things have been happening in my life this week, it's a constant fucking rollercoaster man!

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BUTTER

Barry Purt stirred violently from a rich slumber. ‘BOOF’ went his head on the angled attic ceiling as he shot up poker straight from his bed. Minutes later as he woozily stuttered down the staircase he could still feel the reverb from the knock whizzing around his teeth and gums, making his pudgy cheeks flush crimson. Putting a hand to the banister to steady himself he decided that a spot of breakfast could put paid to the degenerative effects of an early morning head trauma.

Barry was fond of butter. Intensely so. He would huff and wheeze about its virtues, textures, colours and tastes to anyone polite enough to listen. He would elucidate further on regional varieties, rare breeds of butter-bred Friesians and elaborate churning methods used in the Netherlands. And, if you still managed to somehow remain enthralled by Barry’s inane whitterings by this stage, his hot, sour butter breath insinuating itself into your ear canal would inevitably begin to make your stomach churn in giant revolving tumbles of acrid gas and acid, bubbling up in an innate reaction to both Barry’s grandiose tales and repellent physical appearance. It was due to Barry’s freakish passion that he rapidly became known in social circles as the ‘Knob of Butter’

Barry loped into his small kitchenette, resting a portion of his gut on the breakfast bar whilst spreading his thick fingers into his matted brittle hair in search of the rapidly forming new lump amongst all the old ones. His head was beginning to resemble a sort of half cooked potato, slimy and viscous, pock marked and bruised with a sprouting of unevenly shod mud coloured bracken coming out of the top in place of hair.

Eventually giving up on his futile search, he commenced on hoving his quivering bulk towards the fridge, his bare feet collecting the detritus from a graveyard of crumbs which littered the untended floor. He swung the door to and it opened with a sticky pop. To watch Barry survey the myriad golden treats before him was reminiscent of the futile wealth of Croesus, his tongue lolling and clucking as his beady sunken eyes swept over the amassed gold bars which radiated with the light of a million buttercups. There were mountainous ranges of ochre cream, cleft and sculpted over time by lukewarm butter knives. Delving deeper you could find balled rolls of foil tucked near the back, foreign in origin with impressive lettering denoting flavours or regional characteristics. There were even big beige supermarket tubs causing a rabble in the bottom drawers where space was limited. They all had a place in Barrys fridge, mini deities who would see such frequent worship upon altars of toast like little butter Buddha’s.

Barry grasped at a particularly indulgent butter from the back of the fridge, coating his entire forearm in smears from the jostling assembly in the process, literal elbow grease the kind of like which had never been mustered in a less literal sense either personally or professionally. A butter from the Alsace region in France, this particular brand had been coveted by Barry for years, he scoured websites for insight into the creators near alchemical prowess in butter-craft, translating by hand anything he came across, even going so far as to attempt conversation with the master creamer in a stilted and rudimentary French patois over an expensive and not particularly informative phone call. When at last the day came and the consignment of butter from Alsace arrived, Barry eyed it lustily, it was such a small package really, one golden bar ensconced in delicate foil, that it would be it for the entirety of the fickle butter season that year. If it perhaps underwhelmed him in size, it more than compensated in taste, in many ways it was the finest butter he had sampled. It yielded slowly to glance of a knife, if at first it seemed resist it then gave itself over wholly to manipulation once inspired by heat. On the tongue it flirted tenaciously with your taste buds before revealing sweet undulating waves of sensation which pulsed and danced and quivered before sliding down your gullet leaving trails of sunset and salt and eyes bulging at hidden orgiastic delights. This was why Barry had rationed and not squandered it unlike many others whose fate lay in the coagulated mess of arteries buried deep in Barrys fat fortress.

Today would be different however, Barry needed succour, something to ease his lump and appease the lump himself, he resolved to consume the entirety of the remaining Alsace.

Peeling back the foil a large nub of Alsace greeted him, slowly beginning to shimmer on top as the powerful morning light started to motivate it into golden life. Barry salivated and licked the corners of his mouth to prevent frothing.

Reaching instinctively towards his favourite butter knife he stopped short, retracting his meaty appendage as he noted that all along, right up to his elbow, was still coated in a fine lacquer of butter from before which now swam and dripped from arm hair and off fingers and wrist as it congealed with porous sweat in the baking sunlight.

Barry had lived forty-five indolent years, mainly alone, spurring friendship and camaraderie in favour of spunking his life away into meaningless and abhorrent pursuits, which is mentioned only now so as to provide at least some justification to the events that follow.

Barry began to lick and tongue at his arm, slopping wadges of half sweat, half butter into his greasy maw, at first tentatively - casting furtive glances at no one in particular, and then ferociously, voraciously yelping as it gurgled through his gelatinous passageways. Everything that happened next occurred in such a frenzy that no one is still sure of what abnormality of physicality resulted in Barry being flung from the safety of his kitchenette into the wilds of his weed infested garden and beyond.

At some point during his frenzy he loosened his dressing gown and underwear and began to massage the famous Alsace down his gut and thighs and feet. Inertia failing him as he worked it between his toes he felt himself fall head over heels, the crumb encrusted floor rushing up to meet his face, a constellation of delicious abandoned stars as his podgy head crashed into them.

After that, deep dark black nothingness washed all over.

And then, a feeling of déjà vu, Barrys eyes sparked open just in time to see that he was once again about to swan dive into the kitchen floor. He stuck out his hands to break his fall closing his eyes instinctively. When he reopened them a few seconds later he found himself midway up the kitchenette wall whizzing past a dusty picture of him and his mum at Pontins some years previous. Before he could rationalise what was happening, his naked body was careening across the ceiling seemingly freed of both friction and gravity. His ears were filled with the most dreadful screech, not from his own lips however (for the gravity of the situation had not yet kicked in) but from the folds of his sweaty, buttered, juddering mass which recoiled and snapped and propelled in a most terrible and indescribable motion.

It was impossible for Barry to navigate in his condition; he was at the mercy of his body which now no longer obeyed any natural law. Barry had pushed it too far. He tried to lodge himself in the sink as he passed on one rotation of the kitchen and even managed to snag himself on the door handle on another but at each juncture his sopping body would interject and free him from any solace that he aimed for. Strange to relate then that at some point at the end of that first day, at some unknown moment in Barrys infernal kitchen spin cycle, he managed to fall asleep.

The next thing he became aware of was a large mollusk camped out on the bridge of his nose as the sun danced in a circular motion directly behind, searing and blinding with each revolution. He tried to lash out at his new found friend but found his limbs no longer carried any weight. In fact, had Barry been able to look at himself from above at this point he would see not a man, but a fleshy corpustule, smooth and plump yet bilious, covered in butter, breadcrumbs, twigs, crockery and slugs. From afar he probably resembled a deep fried bollock, spinning in his garden, baking slowly in the noon day sun.

As alarm and panic grasped him once again he cried out but no one came to his aid. He found that as he yelled he began to propel faster and faster and eventually he found himself spinning as if in a centrifuge around the fence of his neglected garden. Suddenly he slammed hard against the garden gate. It gave way from its corroded hinges and sent Barry into the cobbled alleyway to the rear of the house. He found he felt no pain as rusty nails and barbed wire atop fences couldn’t pierce his batter. His friend the snail had unfortunately long since passed having been flung off into the ether.

He bounced into the street. Across a car. Up a lamppost and down again. People began to take notice at this point, calling out, taking photos, jumping out of the way of the gargantuan butter bag. He flew through a Tesco Metro leaving a trail of wet creamy slime in his wake. As he passed through the butter aisle he picked up even more speed as if his body was absorbing the now hated substance via osmosis. He was beginning to blur around the edges as he sped through the streets.

Reaching town, he flushed down escalators and coated young mums with prams. He made polite gentlemen throw up in the street and helicopters began to follow him through their special lenses. He thrudupped thrupped thrupped through an entire Topshop and upset a dog.

The police tried to set up barricades and predict where Barry would slither off to next but it was completely futile. The more they chided him through their megaphones the more huffy Barry got and thus the faster and more corpulent he became. As a last ditch effort for rehabilitation they even put Barrys doctor in a helicopter which flew next to him shouting advice as he went “Have you been having your Five-A-Day” he squawked impotently. At this point the police just decided to shoot Barry. They reasoned with themselves; they'd given it their best shot, right?

Scuppering their plans as the snipers took aim, Barrys body took a hard left toward the train station, onlookers diving one way and the other, all instantly regretting how mawkish they had previously been as parked cars and dustbins came flying toward their face. Once on the train tracks, Barry was funnelled on a one way trip, headed toward Brighton, the coast.

He was so fast now the cameras couldn’t keep up. There are some photographs of Barry hurtling toward Brighton pier. And then off it. And then a huge splash.

EPILOUGE

Barry is probably the reason why Anglo-French relations are so terrible at the moment. They assumed he was the first wave in a terrific new kind of biological assault. The French president called up our Prime Minister to enquire as to why a seaweed encrusted scampi with the head of a potato was seen assaulting the peak of the Eiffel Tower with a massive Union Jack trailing out of its arse.

It was a moot point however as just as quick as Barry had scaled the formidable icon than he had launched off it at light speed toward the stratosphere, into space, into unimaginable gaseous colours beyond our conception, leaving only a streak of yellow across a cloudless azure sky.

Dick Diver meets Penelope Pitstop

2010-02-25T11:08:00.000-08:00

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.

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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?

2010-02-23T09:42:00.000-08:00

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

2010-02-19T09:42:00.000-08:00

Wotcha!

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

2010-02-16T11:15:00.000-08:00

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

2010-02-09T14:30:00.000-08:00

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

2010-02-07T14:25:00.001-08:00

So. Very. Tired.

Let me tell you all about Kevin's dad

2010-02-06T07:21:00.000-08:00

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

2010-02-03T12:35:00.000-08:00

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.

IN OTHER NEWS

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)

2010-02-02T13:37:00.000-08:00

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:

Muschy!

2010-02-01T05:20:00.000-08:00

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:

The Strange Tale of How I Shouted "Hello" At My Own Spiritual Manifestation From The Future

2010-01-28T13:23:00.000-08:00

As I was about to sit down to do some illustration work today an unseen spirtual force traveled from the future and leapt straight into my svelte, toned body, and then slithered down my brainstem skidding past my eyeballs before setting off down my throat and squelching out a polite "Hello".

I could tell by the voice that it was me. Me from the future obviously. We got to talking and I eventually asked myself "What do I look like in thirty years then?" and was all excited to see the results. My future self got to drawing and this was the result:
After I finished crying, my future self left (He said he had to rush off to sign on for his dole). I went into my bedroom and looked at my svelte, toned, tanned body in the mirror and repeated the vow "I will never be that man" over and over, in between mouthfuls of Ice Cream and painkillers.

A Picture Post

2010-01-27T10:00:00.000-08:00

Below you will see an illustration what I done for the Bandwidth guys which I really should have posted ages ago but only just now remembered! But lets dig that article in retrospect!

The Perma-Scowl Pub Love

2010-01-26T07:23:00.000-08:00

Maybe this is a bit specific, but have you ever went to certain places to scope out someone you fancy? I don't mean in a creepy stalkerish way but there was a time when I used to frequent a pub and look over longingly at the barmaid working there (This does sound creepy but I would've been there with pals first and foremost, I didn't just stand about gawping, dribbling on myself - it was a very pure sweet thing, OK?)

I was just thinking about it today and how great it was to have that going on and that everybody should have a secret crush and never ever reveal their personal feelings about it until one day you have a break down and write it all in your impotent blog.

The girl at this pub was brilliant though - she took no nonsense from anybody and would fling herself around the room with a perma-scowl on her face. Screw friendly staff - you'll never develop awkward feelings about friendly, approachable people as those situations are far too easily resolved to be in any way passion filled. No, what I needed to do, nay, should have done was square up to her and offer to smash the granny out of her, she would've respected that.

Instead what I did for ages was just furtively glance over hoping that one day she'd come over, throw me over her shoulder and take me away for a week of gruesome scowl filled sex.

The reason I was thinking about all this though was because of how I projected this character onto her, without knowing anything about her - she is almost certainly completely different to how I imagine. I just foisted certain traits on her which suited her demeanor at busy times in her workplace and how she reacted to them. Effectively I created the idea of a feisty, unapproachable lass in my mind which in turn created a 'no go' zone in the real world.

I feel like I should be applauding my mind for being so creative without any prompting but I just want to stick sharpened pencils up my nose instead since it's bent on holding me back from ever licking another ladies face. Or whatever's a normal sign of intimacy these days.

Mutilation Madness! Every Sunday! Sunday! Sunday!

2010-01-23T13:47:00.001-08:00

I'm a bit worried about the youth of today, I think they've all gone a bit weird, I haven't seen half as many of them having wild zombie sex before getting eaten by giant slugs on a remote tropical island whilst chowing down on copious amounts of acid. They mostly hang about outside Newsagents asking you to buy them fags.*

But then again, perhaps I've watched one too many of those skeezy, far out exploitation flicks I've been talking about this week. By far more interesting than these movies however is the accompanying poster/DVD artwork that compels you to buy them for 50 pence in strange smelly "magazine" shops round the back of a Dixons.

In these magic dens, Merlin men from other dimensions who smell like bleach will occasionally proffer advice to you on the best flicks. They have an infinite knowledge of magazines you've never heard of, their covers obscured by black cellophane, sensationally scary titles like "SUCKK" and "ROPES" sticking out the top. They are strange and fascinating places where things that should be forgotten are revered and cherished by obsessives.

It's these abandoned places and abandoned films that has inspired my work this week and as a final dedication to this topic I would like to reveal to you a mock exploitation film poster that I hope you'll enjoy, feast your eyes mortal:

* I took my own life in my hands this week when a 15 year old asked me this in front of his chav mates and I laughed in his face. Luckily he took it well and I was well proud that I'd finally been able to penetrate their language instead of resorting to my usual annoying middle class response of: 'Oh, erm...no. Sorry old bean! They're awfully bad for you! Ha Ha! Pip pip! Please stop spitting at me and saying I'm a gayer in front of these attractive women! Ho ho!"

Ipp Dipp Dog Shit

2010-01-22T04:27:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I was dead dog double bored which is, as we all know, the worst kind of boredom. Instead of hanging about outside the chippy with my crew as I normally do, I instead set myself a challenge (very Blue Peter of me) to write and illustrate a short comic within 24 hours. Of those 24 hours I slept for 18 of them so you'll have to forgive the following results:

A (Wonder) Womans Work Is Never Done

2010-01-20T08:39:00.000-08:00

I've been watching and reading up on a load of monster movies and exploitation films from back in the 70's and 80's recently which have been serving as a little inspiration for the illustration I'm doing on the side at the minute. Even though movies like Driller Killer and Devil's Nightmare are gore fueled romps shot through with misogynistic overtones I can't help but really enjoy them for their anacronistic stylings.

I'd even watch something like Pom Pom Girls which I probably should be ashamed of. In fact if someone ever tasked me with making a film this would probably be the film I'd wanna make in my mind but would actually submit something more prosaic that society wouldn't boot me in the balls for.

Anyway, the real purpose of all this nonsense is to provide a bit of lead in for what was happening in my fevered brain when I drew this monster mash up, hope you enjoy:

Bangor Girls Are Best

2010-01-17T16:15:00.000-08:00

Sitting on one of the sticky benches on the platform at Central Station at 9.30pm the other night I spied a beautiful woman from the corner of my peeper (I have one good peeper, the other one is shit and thus glasses are required.) She was, as The Sun would say in a big font, a stunnah.

In an odd way I wanted her to get on the same train as me, not out of any misguided ambition on my part but rather I wanted her on my team, to hail from the same part of Northern Ireland. Or more vainly, I wanted to revel in the knowledge that I was getting on the beautiful train bound for gorgeous-ville.

But I knew already my dream would be crushed, for I'd been in this situation countless times before - y'see, due to the timetabling of trains at Central Station, the Ballymena line (me & other uggos) overlaps with the Bangor Line (The beautiful people) resulting in an often confusing mix of Lovecraftian beasts from the abyss milling around in concert with pneumatic Uma Thurman lookalikes.

You may think I'm exaggerating, but almost as if to illustrate my thoughts at that point some spide hoved his quivering bleached white bulk into view as my train pulled in and then proceeded to stand in front of the door like a sun scorched dog turd for a stupidly long time before I had to press the big 'OPEN DOOR' button for him. As I stepped into the pish-stink carriage I took one last look across the platform at the Bangor train as it pulled away in the other direction and I could have sworn I had seen their train conductor somewhere before.

Then it hit me, I recalled one bored night late last year I was stuck in a hotel in the middle of nowhere with nothing to do so I had flicked onto Model-TV and seen this bangorian conductor striding down the catwalk at Chanels Autumn/Winter 09 show. You have to admit, a similar skillset is required and it helps keep a young model keep afloat during the downtime between shows.

As a result of this I've decided to make the move to Bangor, but not before some extensive surgery first so as to avoid being burnt as a witch upon entry to their town.

I'll see you on the other side. Wish me luck.

The Dream Blog Cop Out Update

2010-01-15T01:58:00.000-08:00

Shivering in my kitchen lit by the cool blue of the morning light in my cool blue denim nightgown and denim pants I'm reflecting on the dreams I had last night, I often do this as sometimes the dreams involve faded popstars Samantha Mumba and Louise Redknapp degrading themselves whilst Jayne Middlemiss presents it in the style of the OZone circa '96. For example.

Last night there was none of that malarkey, rather it was a series of vignettes taking place at various fictional social engagements, after each one came to its dramatic conclusion I would wake up, Scrooge-like, only to fall back to sleep again and enter another sticky situation (not that kind).

For example - one of the dreams I can recall clearly is that me and my dear poppa pops (father) are out on the razz, we're in a father-son three legless race to the bottom of the glass and have wound up in an old man boozer talking to two beautiful woman. It's all going very well indeed and it doesn't strike me as sickening to be out pulling ladies with your old man, but then disaster strikes as both ladies suddenly announce that they're gay but only when we're around and they'd like us to leave. And that's when I wake up, booted out of my own dream.

Later I dream of a lavish party, banners and streamers suffocate the room as if a serial killer made their lair in Birthdays. The place is packed full of people I have worked with past and present and its some kind of formal do - uh oh! I watch myself enter the room on the arms of two bouncers - oddly they're throwing me into the party instead of out of it but I try to make the best of it by chatting to people. Strangely the only response to my mega-chat is derision and scorn, but in the third person i.e "He's a total prick and smells of Turps and Felt Tips"

I think my sub-conscious was in the hope that I would have learnt some kind of lesson. But I'm going out tonight with pals and as time ticks on I'm not sure of the social lessons I should have learnt from these fever dreams.

I've just finished my brew, breakfast has formally ended sadly. Time to do some actual work on issue 2. Tell you what 400 Facts Fanciers Fraternity, I'll let you all know how I get on tonight and see if these dreams have any impact eh? They probably won't but I'll make some shit up and tie this altogether into coherence.

Ta-ra!