Sketch Diary: Like A Sex Machine

It's mid-afternoon on the Victoria line and this odd chap gets up, shows me a thick wad of a dozen or so condoms in his wallet, and flashes a dirty smile. I don't know which facial expression to select, and I just look into his eyes, blankly. Then he's off, he's gone.

Pretty weird stuff, even by Finsbury Park standards.

Sketch Diary: Sorry

Nothing sketch worthy at all this week. I'm testing out some new fancy pencils with a drawing of a man I see every morning, who organises the bus chaos in Hammersmith station. He is noteworthy only for having a very evil face. Like an Aphex Twin remix of Jim Rosenthal.

He seems like quite a jovial, nice guy, I should add.

Sketch Diary: The Umpire

BEHOLD! A fat girl in a puffa jacket, on an umpire's chair.



No, not more conceptual art. Some local yoofs have discovered that the table tennis/squash area of Finsbury Leisure centre makes an excellent hangout to eat chicken and shout at each other.

Still, it's better than a hut in the woods, where I used to hang out when I was her age. (Boo Hoo)

Sketch Diary: Shit-Art: shit art.

I don't want to sound like the kind of person who says 'all modern art is rubbish,' but within a fortnight I've seen two video installations that feature people rambling incoherently and actually eating shit.

What I find most interesting is all the people who shuffle in, pretend for a few seconds to feel something other than total bemusement, then walk out again, reading the impenetrable guff in the leaflet, looking thoughtful.

Click on the image to see the filth close up, which I quite enjoyed drawing.

Sketch Diary: Silly Billy

On Saturday morning I woke and thought it would be nice to run the 0.77 miles to the shops to get a paper. It was an idiotic decision. I soon remembered I hate jogging, and I'm never doing it again. Then, later, I broke my brand new £2.49 Dunlop Tournament Pro table tennis paddle. I still feel physically sick with grief and fury.

Sketch Diary: The March of The Miserable

Clibbetty cloppetty, clibbetty cloppetty.


This is a sketch of my daily trudge out of the clammy, flourescent funk of the Underground, toward the icy orange drizzle of the evening. We all want to get home, but can only coordinate this painfully slow shuffle towards the buses.

I often contemplate whether the destruction of the entire world would be such a bad thing at this point in my commute home. But only for a few minutes! I'm fine by the time I get home, after I've had a little cry.

Sketch Diary: Huge Jeep, Headbutt, Headache

My ten-minute jolly to Tesco Metro Hammersmith at lunchtime has sadly become the most fruitful time of the week for sketch diary material. On Wednesday, I slipped and smashed my head into a parked Range Rover.

Ok, Snow and Ice, we had fun, but it's been three days. You can fuck off now.