Hmm... So what do we have here? Well... on the surface it looks like an Emin-esque type artist (will the real chin shady please stand up... or is this the wicked witch of the West?) holding up, what seems to be the decapitated head of a leading Saatchi-esque art hater. I'm sure some toss monkey out there would like to buy this conceptual crap.

On closer examination however we see a smirking, twisted sad idealist presenting to the world (on a rather dishevelled worn silver platter) the severed head of her benefactor... looking rather smug with himself. Isn't this the sort of conceptual nonsense that would unite both the artists and the con-artists?

And haven't you conned us all Mr Advertiser... haven't you?

Looking closer still... we see the head of the con-artist getting bigger and bigger as the art establishment pour praises on the meaningless... and elevates the trivial.

By the way... in case you were wondering... why I didn't paint the flames in the background? Ahem, well... the supposed art lover can supply his own can of gasoline and matches... some of us have to earn a living!

After getting wasted on various hallucinogenics I decided to prepare the canvas for Marijke Logan's anti-war show in Arizona. Various images, concepts flashed through my head.

Iraqi troops marching across a cluster bombed field… chancing with death.

A soldier on a tank pondering about how many women and children he's killed today.

An American sold Iraqi surface to air system fires at an invisible enemy.

A Westpoint trained Iraqi fighter pilot engages in battle with his American counterpart…

An Iraqi orphan with his legs blown off.

Palestinian children throwing stones at American made tanks.

An innocent civilian holds his dead baby up… killed in order to 'liberate' it.

Young children armed with grenade launchers… aimed at the liberators.

Oh… and who's that in the centre? Why it's Arizona's very own Balbir Singh Sodhi.

All unwilling participants in the war on terror.

After having my second mental breakdown earlier this year, I decided to try and commit suicide by jumping off the tourist yacht I happened to be in, just off Ile aux Cerf (Mauritius).

The sun was beginning to set, and it suddenly hit me... this could be my big chance!

Then I saw the lone spectre if a ghost ship, the desolate fishing boat sail past, and I thought… what could be more poignant than the sad journeying of the lone fisherman…

One guy seemed to be having a ball though…

So… I decided to go to the Cambridge Beer Festival with my agent Mr Hall. We started off at 6 pm on some fucking green part of Newmarket that I have no idea where… Something to do with religion… Satan's Green? Hmm… we already dropped two tabs a few hours before and they were beginning to notice.

… anyway, 6.15pm we were suddenly in a tent with a whole bunch of lizardly looking gentlemen with their manky facial hair, slabbering on about real ales and Unix…

'They want to kill us all! And piss on our corpses!'

Did I just say that aloud… no … no… calm down… One reptile is ahead of us trying to get his head topped up. The bar creature is being polite but I can hear what he's really saying: 'I've served bearded wankers with t-shirts that say 127.0.0.1 for 10 years! Now the joke's on you arsehoooooooole!'

Finally after a split second infinity we were at the head of the queue. We were handed a pint of 'Cat food monthly' from the 'O & B' brewery: Tasted of monkey jism…

Bad vibrations are beginning to emanate from the tent/cathedral. Someone's throwing grapefruits at my head. Splintered mammaries welling up from the time fog… the monkey's were closing in.

7pm… finished the pint, had a crap on the lawn outside… no one noticed, I think? People are watching me…
Hall is shouting: 'STOP LOOKING…. NOTHING TO SEE HERE… see/hear… hear/see…. heresay? Monkay?'

Pulled my pants up…. No need for a wipe-down. The decision to flee back into the tent came suddenly. We found ourselves near the summer ale section. This time Hall chose a pint of 'Red faced blotchy' from the Cambourne Ale company…

When I bought this to the attention of Hall he flipped and started telling people to watch out for the monkey-fuckers.

We glided into the next dimension, floating… falling until we entered the dark ale section with it's various cocktails of tarred-up beers. A hairless simian offered us a pint of 'nob cheese reserve' - necked it in one gulp and then retched as the stilton-esque and Camembert aroma tried to stifle the stale cheesy chunky cack. I pulled out a chimp pube which was lodged between me teeth as I got naked and started producing some nob-cheese of my own…

We were both bundled to the floor by the monkey-fuckers and found ourselves awake at a table… outside about 20 seconds-2 hours later. It seemed I had just eaten a battered fried Brie sandwich washed down with a pint of 'dog sex weekly' -, another classic from the 'O & B' brewery.

Hall was standing above me… jabbering on about how he couldn't take me anywhere… I didn't want to anywhere, did I?
Time for another dump I thought. Best to be discrete this time - didn't want to cause any more trouble… so I slowly eased the shite out… and hoped my pants could absorb it.

JESUS WEPT… I smelt of skanky rotten Red Leicester… no one was saying anything, but Hall was noticeably moving away… hmm…

… After the smell died down (or we got used to it)… we then made a stumbly exit to the Euro beer section, where a nice bit of skirt was serving up the bevvies. (I popped a popper just to get the blood rushing once more). While Hall got us a pint of 'Father's Special' from Daneland I believe… or something like that…

Had the smutty overtures of primate pubes… Made me want to fuck orang-utans. There was a trace of spunk on my pants… trying to get it off made me as stiff as a post.

I got the monkey horn bad, and the bargirl knew it… eye contact… she fell in love with me… just before I puked in her face.

We ran out in opposite directions, me heading towards the lights… Hall heading out towards the ground.

So there he went, too weird to live, to fucked to die.

I woke up the next afternoon outside 'reality checkpoint'; naked… bar a banana stuffed up my arse.

So there I was… 15 miles into my bike-ride in Suffolk, trying to find a nice place to top myself.

Was originally going to go to Beachy Head, but the distance and the cycle paths were total shite. Didn't want to get killed on the roads by the Bastard car-drivers.

Anyway, arrived at the village of Covehithe and thought about standing at the cliff front and waiting for the sea to erode me into its watery embrace. Four hours later and several paintings done - I decided to go to the pub and have a beer.

So. the so-called allies have 'won' the war. Countless civilians had to be neutralised in order for the West to secure their oil revenues for the next decade. The troops look on, as the cities are looted and the gangs run riot. While the real looters (Exxon, Shell and BP) secretly privatise the Iraqi oil.

A new Saddam is being primed to take over. after a retired general has robbed the country blind and locked up and tortured any suspected Fedayin, Al Quaeda, Republican guard, liberal democrat, socialist or anyone else that opposes the US and British occupation.

But remember - democracy will be installed when the Iraqis can be trusted to govern themselves (i.e. when the oil runs out).

In the meantime our friendly neighbourhood allied soldier has arrived to police the locals, shoot a few people at checkpoints, install the old police force to torture any rebels, secure the oil fields and make life hell for everyone.

But what do the Iraqis think of this - are they scared....

...or angry?

Acrylic on Canvas 40x50cm

This piece is a glimpse into the horror that awaits the world as the American and British Imperialist powers start their war for oil.

The canvas portrays the young child (the child artist perhaps?) greeting the axis of arseholes Bush and Blair in the center of the polluted desert-fields. In his hand is his simple answer to his liberation from one madman to his new ones.

The background shouts out the image of oil fields burning blood into the sick sky, fit only for a giant B52 bomber to grace - as it pours death onto the land...

As for the foreground... well, bullet holes mark the canvas as they try to stifle debate, objectivity and truth as the splattered blood of the artist runs dry...

A sign to the right says don't bomb Iraq... or does it say Iran?

hmm...

1. Home of the Artist (Parkside)- Before the War...

Ok, it's mid week and I've just finished my 11am wank... Not had a good night's sleep - just thinking about this shit war that's going to go down... and I got totally wrecked again the night before. All that can save me now from losing the plot is to slip myself a tab and leave mother acid do her work...

But before I escape, I might as well capture the moment in the artist's pad, studio, knocking shop and general doss/crack house for future prosperity. As an aside I just moved to this dungeon a month ago and formed the Cambridge Stuckists with a few scavver's I could find and everything is looking rosy... well apart from the fucking war and the millions of Iraqis that are going to die....

Anyway, this visual poo was captured using pen on paper - as this is the only thing I can afford at the moment... Well... and a few Mickey mouse watercolour pencils I scaved off one of the local shite artists for certain sexual favours involving a sausage and a pea... but that's another story... isn't it?

2. Outside the Home of the Artist (Parkside) - During the Mind War???

Ok, as you can tell I just took a tab that I found under the bed (only one... which has hardly any effect on my scrambled egg brain now... But at least it stops me thinking about that wanker bush, with blair and that spanish guy no one seems to know as his official rimmers.)

But I digress...

This is the outside of the artist's pad... I'm in the basement broom cupboard (under the arch) with a communal toilet/kitchen I have yet to find. (The park's always been good enough for me...) Hehehe.

Anyway, the place is beginning to colour up a bit more and scav central is looking good after 10 years of sanctions and an 'oil for food' program. Ahh... but wait, what's that in the sky.... Oh it's only a 2 million dollar sausage-shaped cruise missile heading towards us... arseburgers the lot of them...

3. The bombs are falling on Orchard Street

Hmm... just escaped the scene of the last bombardment and am now heading off down orchard street... don't know how I got here... just followed all the rest of the screaming, burning residents. 2 mins walk away and you're out of scav central to a haven of middle England (they must all be taken out...).

Still, can't complain... the yanks wouldn't dream of bombing us here... a 3000 year old civilisation, the first city (oh wait that's Iraq isn't it?)

Oh! and here come the sauerkraut-shaped bombs again... I hope CNN are capturing this massacre...

4. Inside the Bridge of Sighs - my Bomb Shelter

I've been running and screaming down the streets of Cambridge/Iraq - telling everyone to get inside, the yanks with the poodle Brits and Aussies are here... but everyone's just ignoring me... funny that?

So my only respite is to go into the Bridge of Sighs in St. John's College and eek out the remaining hours we have left painting my mark on society... a lone bint looks away in despair as I curl into the foetal position and cry like a dog... 'Don't bomb Iraq'.

5. The Bombing of St John's College, Cambridge.

Hmm... it's been a few hours now (or has it been minutes??) - and I haven't heard a sound... so I make my way out of the shelter to the gardens of St. John.... Only to see missile lazily float down like a feather into the chapel. (Must be collateral damage - a friendly target... a fuck up?.... Just like this whole 'war for oil' adventure). Anyway, I'm just going to stand here and wait fore the thing to burn down to the ground...

God! It's taking its fucking time? Colours are beginning to swirl... must escape before it's too late!

6. The Annihilation of the Bridge of Sighs

Ok, just managed to get out of the firing line before everything went a bit weird... and the bridge of sighs was about to be undone... heyho... that's life isn't it ... or is it death?

I'm not sure... but what I can be sure about is that the tree looks fucking weird. I think there's a whole new bomb shelter being created out of the aftermath of the last - just behind the tree (but no one can ever be sure...)

'The allies' will probably install a dodgy general to run it for a while but we'll have peace won't we?... Well for at least the next suicide bombing by an Iraq that's been dispossessed... Which'll be a few million.

The big conglomerates are building some very strange looking oil fields in the background...

Time for me to go to the bar...

7. The Regal - or I think it's the Regal??

At last... all this killing has got me in the mood for a few beers...and what better than scav central in Cambridge (the Regal). All the drug dealers and their tarts hang out around here - which basically means: I'm right at home.

But more importantly, the axis of evil (bush and blair) can't touch us here, can they? Looks like the cruise missiles and smart bombs are well off course and there's only me - and entrance to peace... and a pea perched on the upper tower.

Hmmm. reminds me of past misdemeanours...

The moon/sun is looking a tad green.... Must be the drugs...

8. Reality Checkpoint

At last I've breached the other side of reality and have come back down a bit... war is raging all around but at least I'm heading home... wonder if anyone's still alive, or have the American and British troops occupied the land (UN resolution anyone???).

Anyway, at least this looks a lot more peaceful now... or does it? The axis of jokers have finally caught up with me and are about to release the mother of all neutron bombs...

Time to shit my pants...

Well... at least I'm in the park...

Pastel on Fabriano Paper

After hearing about this story from various circles I was compelled to put pastel onto paper and depict this utterly despicable, fascist, souless individual: Professor Miller - Yale University. To read about one (of many) of this bastard's crime refer to this website:

A bit of background is needed on the inner workings of this bloated enema. The scumbag, racist Perry Miller, the megalomaniac, stole the work from a fellow academic colleague (with the help of another nazi: Ken - the cunt - Kidd) and then had him sacked. Pure and simple evil… in a nutshell my friends.

A few years later… in the dead of the night I was approached by the art world to begin work on this central figure of ridicule and his so-called beast of a wife: Sandra Frawley (which work may commence at a later date). Well…mes amis… to cut a long story short I decided to implement this work in the dynamic medium of pastel on Fabriano paper. The initial oil sketches were venomously pasted with hatred onto the canvas leading to a mess of a picture… a bit like the mess of this fat bitch's face. But then it hit me… the dynamics of painting, the contradiction of using the delicate textures of pastel to create an image of an eyeless-soulless freak of evil. A parody of the fine touch of solid crumbling paint to implement this overweight, over indulgent thief. I begin to paint.

This piece depicts Professor miller as the academic bitch that he his… wearing the used condom that he fucked his last colleague/student with.

His grinning twisted impish face depicting his death gloat at he steals the life of yet another hapless individual. The bloated breasts of this $10 slag who'll take you up the arse if you turn you back on him. All you can think of is where are his henchman Frawley and Kidd… and when will they do a number on you too.

...You know it makes sense.

This work is available to burn or distribute… as you see fit.

The artist Damien has produced this portrait of the very unfortunate Mr Pim Fortuyn… I thank yew… I thank yew… ahem…

Hahahahahaha… I laughed... I never laughed soo much… That fuckin tulip picker got what was coming to him… he really did.

Anyway, as a mark of respect for the un-dearly departed I've decided to knock up a quick piccy (oil on canvas) of the fascist bastard Pim Fortuyn…or is it a young version of Mussolini… mixed with a bit of our very own Ian Duncan Smith … In this drugged up state I'm in .. all the nonce's are blending into one: 'The Portrait of a Composite Nazi…'

A good use of blood red was used liberally to highlight this piece of shit. Touches of fascist blue to offset the colour scheme.

Anyway, this cant got six bullets in him... I wonder if you clog wearers can join the dots up? Or are you too blinded by the media bollocks… His heads on a spike and he's still shifting to the right. All the dinks are propping him up.

Well… what more can I say… If you like the portrait you can email me at the address below… If you want to buy a print, I'll be sure to give all the proceeds to any Muslim families that get killed in the next 6 months…

The artist Damien has produced this specially commissioned portrait of the queen mother to commemorate the Queen's golden jubilee... Enjoy.

Well I just stuck my cock up this old tranny I met at Ted's place, took some coke and washed it down with some liberal helpings of salted cum… When all of a sudden I noticed the similarity between this old hag and the late queen mum

(gaaawd bless her manky soul).

(Readers and artists alike are beginning to spot the similarity between this encounter and the last shag fest with the late princess madge look-alike… who actually looked more like Rosanne Barr... but that's drugs for you...)

Anyway, back to it… I asked the freaky him-her if SHe wouldn't mind posing while I captured her worn tartesque features. So… out cums the usual assortment of pastel complementaries: Crimson red to offset that hint of porno-blue in the corner. Burnt arse sienna and aqua-marine thrown in for good measure. Highlighting the tits with some sort of yellowish thing that I picked up off some naff art shop in the mid-eighties. (I believe it was near Notting Hill station… though I can't be sure…)

Anyhow, you get the idea… a bit of colour composition… now deal with the tones: ¾ middle tone, hints of light and darkness to make the values a tad more assessable and acceptable.

…Finally… I think about the actual composition… just shift the old bint a tad to the right and give her a knowing grin.

(I always work back to front, but that's how Mr Mental paints… and you can't argue with Mr Mental now can you…. Or can you?)

Well… when I'm coked up it's colour fist, tone second and composition last… or something like that…

Ok… there you have it…. Queenie's Clammy Caaant. But why caaant you ask? Well… after finishing the piece, having a dump and ½ hour nap I was forced to suck her cock while she screamed suck my Caaant… SUCK MY CAAAANT….

and rest....

Hmm… After my little psychotic episode and mental breakdown (after the new year) I've remained in the cocoon of my bedroom for 3 months. My only companion: a spunk ridden duvet and a well used copy of the New York Times. Anyway, after 2 months hibernation and liberation I have finally emerged from my hellhole to face… the living room. My first journey of the day. The pyjamas have served their purpose well…. Crusted and cack filled, I discard them. The naked artist released once more

Ok… back to it… It's 1.30 am, on a Tuesday Morning... I'm stark naked... my left nipple is slightly itching (and sore... but that's another story). I haven't had any drugs for a week and the world seems a tad dull - you know the feeling: grey... too much grey. Anyhow, everyone's asleep now... (well not everyone... the faint sound of cars and pub fights can be heard from a few blocks outside... all the fun to be had in the madhouse of Colney)

…and I'm stuck in boresville trying to sketch out the living room... typical life of the artist eh?..(living room?...the death room more like...).

Anyway, I set up the scene.... the dining table... a symbol of life, flatulence and death perhaps? I place an old table cloth on the table to cover the new pristine cloth with the old... Symbols of the reinvention and reintegration of the ancient masters long since passed… perhaps? I Fold over the corner of the old cloth to indicate the worn out ideals of the past covering the ideas of the future. One chair is slightly ajar, indicating to the viewer to take a seat… be a part of the action. It's pitched black outside, so I turn the lights fully on and open the curtains (a couple of fighting cats piss off back to where they came from). I, on the other-hand light the world around me... breaking the night-time curfew... waiting for the air-raid to finish us all off... In the background A couple of pictures of me in better times hang from the wall... I decide to place a big vase on the table stick some small flowers in it and realise the futility of nature against the engulfing persona of man and global capitalism...
I then begin to sketch scene…

Jesus Christ all fucking mighty!!

... as usual, the shakes are preventing me from completing my work, the failing eyesight takes on a life of its own... little flecks of white here... smudges of bluriness there... flakes of dried eye-shit swimming to the surface of my cornea... everything is beginning to fade out of proportion... frustration is setting in... going slowly mad... a massive fart is building up in the background... the third tooth from the front is beginning to tingle... MAD... MAD... must take a pill... MUST TAKE A PIIILLLLL!!!

10 minutes to 4 hours later…

…I've dropped some tabs and amphetamines... my prescription anti-depressants haven't hurt either... Everything is looking a lot more colourful...

I'm standing in the outside now... looking in.... into nowhere... over there? (ermm... I'm still naked? Fuck them all...)
Anyway, What do I see? The old house is ready to fall into the chasm, as all around the religious hierarchy titters on the edge of destruction… or nirvana?
A crumbled flower gives out its last gasp... A holeless opening brings forth two eyes looking at me looking in. A tree is growing out of the chimney spreading like a web... trapping us all. Flakes of death descend into the pit...out of which a strange looking bird thing arises and gives me a quizzical look? What's through the round window Jemima?

30s later…

I've decided to meet my old art's teacher. I've transported my mind to a reality shifted in colour and space to this reality that I own now and enter the Maze of Macelroy... Are you still benevolent... are you?
In the foreground I perceive the master... long since passed... a crooked table as his workspace, a few sheets of ancient scrawls in the corner, a plant thick with the crumbling beauty of death, a portrait of yourself is seen through our eyes... together once more. The master of old stands proudly on the chequered floor of his past, mountainous hell surrounds both me and the master... he's looking over my shoulder into outside... does he see you approaching this work... perhaps...

A dribble of spunk wets your lips... as a strange looking bird-thing hides behind a tree

The setting sun marks my departure from this twisted reunion... until...

4.3567 hours per metres later...

I am transported into the main area of 'The Colne'... the center of this village of madness. I stand on the main crossroads facing the suburban nightmare armed only with an erect penis and a cack covered canvas. The grass verge stands between me and the observer... which happens to be myself... watching the artist work as a silent witness… to a second rate 70s porn flick.

Three buildings (that were once mental institutions) stand before us... the artist and the artiste. Left, the house of Shenley, my one stop at being a mentalist, the middle house reveals: Napsbury ... or Nappoland to it's inmates... to the right we both paint Cell Barnes... 'the cell of madness itself...' All three have their doors closed... but the insanity still burns strong.

Bird thing observes the observers from behind one building. We observe you all.

As I am about to descend down one street I am...

30 years later...

Standing at the bridge that crosses the Colne. One side leads to the old... the other side to the unseen. Buildings to the left appear golden with the light of the new, to the right the crimson shells beckon me towards them. I hold my guiding light. I hold aloft the sceptre of the Nappo inmates (passed on from generation to generation of mentalists from a time long since passed). With this by my side, my mind remains intact... for now...

Ahead of me lies the guardian of the gate, the bridge master: a perturbed looking squat animal that seems to speak to me in my own emoticons. Do I cross the bridge or shall I throw myself in the river... and let the stream of consciousness and conciseness take me to where I need to be. A floating turd washes down the stream and builds itself a small encampment. Shall I squat here? Bird thing offers no solutions... or does it?

Time to fly...

Minus 2.8 light years into the future past...

Flying though the imagined death of time and space I have finally arrived at our destination. The pinnacle of human endeavour? Or am I just off my face... do I still have a face? I can't be sure, but what I can correct about is the shift in my reality to your disgraced perceptions. Can you feel it?

The piss stained gateway to the truth now lies before us. A glowing sparkler lies in wait for the fools who want to reach out and grasp it... want to get burned today? Do you? Other mountains holding other gateways spring forth from the wasteland that surrounds our minds. The moon is beginning to set, as is the sun... followed by a loose piece of shit dribbling down my legs.

Bird friend guides me to the mountain to the left... heading back to a reality that you created and that I am beginning to embrace... with a blood soaked canvas and a soiled pencil.

I turn to the left...

3.5 furlongs per second later

I have returned to the village... My journey has lead me back into the pre-time of our new reality. You stand on the hill with your disciples pointing at me ... pointing at you. Other realities stand back and watch with a mild obsession as you and I try to decipher each other's mind-set.

Observing all of this is a tiny enormous apple cacophony that lies in wait on an abandoned table... in the centre of this abstract wasteland. Two shifted buildings protrude from your interrogation and present themselves to me as an alternative gateway to reality... which door do I take? Bird being seems to point the way... but can it be trusted... can you be believed?

28 Nautical miles into the future...

I take the door into a new symphony? Familiar faces seen to greet me from the P&P. Mines a short half and a packet of peanuts? Or is it a pint of tragic self-realisation? I approach them in my naked satiated state and they show me their abandoned world strewn with old copies of the anarchist manifesto, plasto-porcelain bathroom pieces, portraits of ideology and abstract sounds permeating the room.

As for my guests... One describes himself as an Anarcho-Islamicist... who obeys no one except god? Another as a eco-nihilist who wants to burn everything and start again with sulphur based life-forms. One describes herself as a femi-menimist... a women who wants to fight for the right of males to fight for female rights? And finally to add to this shag-fest a being who believes in the seen and the unseen as a impression of the deeply imprinted shadows showing the viewer a faint hint of what could be seen in an unseen world. She refers to herself as an artist, I decide that I need to dump my load... and head towards the glowing door. Bird fiend (disguised with a thick beard... and glasses) watches on... impatiently.

0.25x10-43 years later

As I step though the door I am thrown forwards and downwards at an incredibly slow speed though the midst of dust to the original room... the death room... the living room... my starting point... and my end point? Can it end now? Can it begin again? Can you come outside to play? Or do you have to finish your homework after your tea?

Too many questions with no answers... but all I am interested in is the imperceptible downward movement as I float sideways from that reality into this staticality. Bird being observes from behind the settee and nods (and nobs) its head in approval. The table is beginning to smile once more... are you?

10 minutes before I left...

So... I'm back... I'm sitting in the same place... and I feel a quiet confidence in the future of humanity. Tanks have stopped crushing the innocents. The planes have stopped blitzing the streets. Soldiers have stopped their door to door searches. Helicopters fade off into the background of our memory... the deafening and defining screams have been silenced. We all emerge from our hiding place... free once more.

Merry Christmas... War is over.

But this room remains the bitter same...

...but wait... something has changed… hasn't it? Hasn't it?

...my mind prison just can't quite make it out....

This is a small study into the human form in my traditional medium of Soft Pastel on Fabriano Paper.

After doing some heavy shit with a local soho working girl (just happened to be called Margaret), I noticed the similarity between the this slapper and the late Princess Margaret… (well there was in my drunken, drugged out phase…). Anyway, after getting banged up and fed-up with wallowing in my own spunk, I decided to get the scraps of manky Fabriano paper and half chewed Rowney Pastels out and begin to work. (I always keep these on me for these very reasons… and the paper works quite well as substitute bog roll for those emergency wipe downs… it’s the grit factor… you know what I mean).

Hmm…

Ok, slapper Madge was asked to pose in the same fashion as the late Princess’s final official portrait (well it made sense at the time)… I tried to get her to pull a twisted, knarled ‘just had a stroke’ look, just to get the realism in… and then I began to paint (with the remaining crumbling pastels, chewing gum and white powder found in my back pocket…

Actually the sketch was initially implemented via whisks and flicks of a charcoal stick (picked up from a rubbish tip, I believe, in 1987). Luckily the paper had a mid tonal quality, which allowed me to pick up the subtle tonal variations of this old caants visage. I used this mid tone as a starting point and worked either side with darker and paler pastels… gradually building up to the main highlights and grim darkness… (my nob was also building up.. but that’s another story). I tried to reproduce the main structural planes of this tart with light, but decisive strokes of burnt sienna and grey tint 4… a bit like way I tried to poke her … arse… hehehe.

No but seriously…

I then tried to highlight the baggyness of her eyes by underlining them (hear all the purist cry out in shame… fuck em… I almost care). Also, I was mainly concerned with her breasts so I kept the colours of the rest of the work fairly muted… got the red out to get the breasts in focus… One could almost say: The active treatment of every area of the breasts enhanced the impression of space and form. You love it you do.

I did a bit of blending with my spunk/shit stained forefinger… but I tried not to overwork it… the subject was dull enough without me pissing on the pastel ‘bloom’. ‘The fluidic contour lines captured the essence of the pose… and my cock. The rest of the shit was blocked (code for rush job) in the reds and greens … can’t remember if they were Cadmium Red or Lizard Green Tint 1… but then again... are you really interested… I’m not. I followed it up with some mad cross-hatching, blended to make the composition more balanced (or did it just smear in my back pocket?) Finally, I shoved Sepia Tint 8 into the paper to get some very dark crap. Sepia… what a nice word…

Hey ho…All knocked up in 10 minutes (I had to pay her an extra 20 quid… but that’s a small sacrifice to pay for the sake of art… I think?)

20,000 babies dying every day of malnutrition in Africa...

10,000 babies dying every day of malnutrition in Asia...

5,000 babies dying every day of malnutrition in South America...

... and all your concerned with: is the dead little shit of a hypocrite…

You make me want to puke…