New Illustration


Hello.  For the first time in a little while I’ve done a new illustration, it’s on the theme of music and words.

I’m also working on a polished version of my Belcham image from my 100 days project which will hopefully be finished and posted here soon.





100 days: Day 44




In response to the animation request on the 100 days site ( I’ve spent the day creating a mini loop-animation entited ‘Balloons’. Unfortunetly I can’t find a way to put it on my blogpage because wordpress doesn’t accept flash files, bit frustrating. So if you’d like to see it you’ll have to follow the link, there’s one up there at the top, or if you tend to scroll the cursor along as you read then here’s one for your benefit, here.

Here’s a still so the page doesn’t look empty. I’ll try and get the animation on the actual page when I can.


100 days: Day 43



Imagine a pub setting, with lots of nautical trinkets adorning the walls and a plaster model of a fishermen in a yellow mac that was originally created with the intention of looking creepy outside a fish and chip shop. This story is set in such a place.

An almost visibly tangible smell of over ripe fish hung in the air, the kind of smell that forces involvement from the taste buds as well the nostrils. But that’s an aside. The pub is called ‘The Fisherman’s Anchor’, they serve food and it’s mostly fish based.

The Anchor attracts two very distinct sections of society; the young (sorry to resort to the stereotype, but) studenty type, maybe even A-level students, generally they’re attracted by the kitsch value, it dominates their pub banter and the trinkets are adopted into prop-based horseplay. This angers the other distinct section of society which on reflection isn’t that distinct at all, it’s just people who live near by, locals. But they all do tend to be middle aged men, a lot of bald spots and tan leather bomber jackets, just an observation.

One evening, one such man (the local demographic type) was stood watching a game of popular sport on the television. He had a tin of rusty brown ale in one hand and the other hung by his side, the fingers parted to the exact width of the cigarette that would have once smouldered there. Another local demographic man barged past leaving nothing but static between the pair. It caused the first man, Pete, to jolt and spill some drink. The second man, Chris, offered not one word by way of apology.

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100 days: Day 42



‘Ahhhhhhh bugger!’ garbled the man, called… Raymond, as he tripped over a clump of protruding top soil, down he went into a graceless tumble that resulted a bad knock to the knee and litany of what he’d refer to as ‘Ungodly Words’. Good thing he has no neighbours, was his immediate thought. A large chunk of mud clung to his open sandal, when manically shaking his ankle about returned no results and for fear of detaching his limp gelatinous calf muscle (which unnervingly made the sound of a half full hot water bottle being jostled about as he shook it), he resorted to kneeling to remove it by hand. As he picked the mud from between his toes it occurred to him that one of them was missing – one of his toes. It didn’t seem as if he’d injured himself, it hadn’t broken off, it’d disappeared, no blood or marks or anything along those lines, simply no toe, no toe not sitting in a void where he was convinced there had previously been an unremarkable toe. Hadn’t there? Had he knocked it into his foot? Is that even possible? Had he dreamt of the toe? Was he the kind of man that would dream of a toe? Is there a kind of man that would dream of a toe, is that even a way to categorise people? His mind was bubbling over with questions, each one moving further off topic, each one not really answerable. His head began to pound and so it was time for a sit down accompanied by the intermittent checking his toeless gap. Still no toe.

It never came back. Every so often he goes and retraces his steps, albeit with a bit of a limp, but nothing. He’s come to terms with it, but doesn’t quite know where to place it. Mentally.

100 days: Day 41


Fly Catcher

The unwitting fly would never know it’s relevance as it proved in John’s own mind what he has always expected of the pattern of universe. The galaxy had spoken and it said, ‘Splik!’.

100 days: Day 40



‘Hellooooooooo,’ rattled the chillingly familiar over-enunciation across the intercom. Margaret stopped fashioning a beehive hairdo from the shampoo suds that crackled around her ears. Bathtime had lost it’s joy.

Dripping and cold, her finger hovered inches from the buzzer as she watched the grainy black and white screen relay images of Robert Swansworth shifting anxiously from foot to foot. The perspective emphasized his already prominent forehead, it made him almost appear comical. That was a short lived novelty.


‘Unwise… I notice your light is on, I’m aware of how energy conscious you are Margaret and so you should be in the current climate, both economic and literal. I suggest you reconsider your availability status. Margaret. Open the door,’ it was his nature to be long-winded, his vocal style was quick and clipped, this avoided the possibility of interruption. Also, he was so enraptured by his own intimidating prose that he neglected to hold down the talk button for half of it. Still, it had the desired effect.

‘Yes, hi, hello Robert. Sorry I was in the bath. Give me a moment and I’ll buzz you up,’ she spluttered into the intercom, regretting each syllable.

‘Hello Margaret, very well, I’ll be taking a note of the time,’ he turned from the front door, hands clasped in the style of a bouncer. Nobody likes this guy.

Margaret quickly evaluated and donned her most unattractive clothes and then buzzed him in.

‘Shit,’ she muttered.

Within a minute he was at the inner door, his spindly knuckles rapping out a hollow clanking rhythm against the thin wood.

‘Tis I,’ exclaimed the charmless husk from behind the door. Everything he uttered had no discernible depth, it was always small talk, but he managed to imbue each word with a seedy melancholy.

She clicked the latch and allowed him to slope in like a tendril of phlegm detaching itself from the door frame. Then he stood in the small hallway, his determination to enter the flat was now realised and so he became listless and uncommunicative, his back to Margaret. Margaret watched and waited for a while to see if this was a momentary thing… no, it wasn’t.

‘Robert?’ she prompted gently.

‘Mr Swansworth!’ he snapped back.

Ah, it’s a “Mr Swansworth” day today, thought Margaret. His mood-scale ran from Bob to Mr Swansworth, so this was a bad indication.

‘Tea, Mr Swansworth?’ she asked.

‘Earl Grey,’ he responded. He then walked into her lounge and took up occupancy on her favourite chair, the one in a sunspot. There he sat for a while, looking out of the window before leafing through an old copy of Grazia magazine and complaining of a musty smell in the flat.

He left after three hours and four cups of Earl Grey. That’s the moral of the tale, be sparing with the use of the phrase ‘anytime’ because he’s been coming over for three years now and Margaret can’t remember how it started, doesn’t enjoy his visits and is too polite to risk offending him. Just saying, be weary of that.

100 days: Day 39



‘And how can I be of service?’ said the little man with the little voice from behind his little counter.

‘Just browsing,’ replied Glenda as flippantly as she could muster as she perused the vast array of toby jugs.

‘Very well, I’ll be here if you need me,’ he said as he turned up the volume on the tv, Allo Allo was on, or he had the dvd.

His was a small atmospheric shop that offered whatever the heart desired, on the understanding it was toby jug related. Coincidently Glenda’s heart was longing for just that. She grasped Churchill’s hollow head and drew it to her lips as she imagined supping a beverage from the great man’s crown. She closed her eyes and fantasized that she could absorb his thoughts and acquire orally a minuscule facet of the man’s overwhelming relevance. He’d seen her type before and promptly banned her from the shop, head gluggers he called them.

The author was a bit drunk.

100 days: Day 35


Terry and Tim’s Mobile Pleasure Theatre.

Terry’s defining feature had always been his sleek nimble fingers. He’d realised his unique gift on the school yard. What began as idle fidgeting soon began to attract attention, and then crowds. There was something about the way he could manipulate his hands that was unnatural, even spellbinding. It wasn’t that he was unnaturally quick or precise, it was something to do with the way he moved, it was kinetic, it had a liquid quality that one couldn’t hope to mimic or completely grasp. Generally speaking, upon witnessing, it evoked a strange feeling, one that the viewer couldn’t place, other than to agree that it was pleasurable; it kind of hit you in the stomach and made the back of your neck feel warm.

Terry would spend his playtimes giving command performances of ‘Church and Steeple’ and ‘that one where you pretend to pull your thumb off’ to the other children as they struggled to interpret their emotions.

Although a gift, Terry’s malleable digits did eventually become a burden. He progressed through puberty as problematically as any child, but unlike others he was in a constant state of distraction. Thinking about his hands, what could he do with his hands? Everyone else had stopped thinking about his hands, this was the problem. He’d learned to roll a coin over the top of them by this point, but it raised little more than a ‘ahh… oh right’ accompanied by a sincere but underwhelming smile from those whose attention he would have to request prior to the trick.

He didn’t fare well in his studies, he didn’t attempt to and once school was done he left the education system to go and work with his hands. Initially selling fruit and veg at a market stall.

He was good at it. He worked out a routine in which he would list various pieces of fruit whilst giving them the appearance of circulating on an invisible conveyor belt just in front of his chest, sounds a bit like juggling, but it wasn’t, it looked really impressive. It was this that caught Tim’s attention. Tim was a local entrepreneur who owned the stall opposite. They became friends, or at least that was Terry’s interpretation and when Tim offered up the thought, Terry wasn’t alarmed by the proposition of ‘sexing things up a bit’.

Within a month the two were in business and Terry and Tim’s Mobile Pleasure Theatre was born. Their one to one shows toured the length of the high-street as Terry’s enchanting fingers played out erotic dances for the small change of strangers. Tim provided an all too graphic soundtrack. Initially it paid for itself, kept Terry in manicures and fed and clothed the pair.

It was arthritis that put an end to it. Tim attempted to continue alone, but the soundtrack didn’t work on it’s own and only caused repulsion.

100 days: Day 34



It’s alright, nobody’s got a clue.

100 days: Day 33


The man in the park with the balloon

He’s been trying to sell that same balloon for over a year now,

I think he’s charging over the odds.