Sketch Diary: I'm back.

I've been busy doing boring drawings for coins. Sorry for the lack of updates (mum).


Just as I decided 'tonight I will sketch somebody for the blog', a man got on the train and started rapping at me. Badly. All that really lame stuff about blowing your money on prohibitively expensive champagne in a nightclub to impress ladies so you can grind up against them for a bit (like a sick dog scratching his testicles on a tree, probably).

Sketch Diary: Bus-Spotter Spotting

Spotted: A bus spotter.

Just writing down the five-digit number above the driver's window. Of every bus that went past. In the rain.

Sketch Diary: Three People

This is just three people that caught my eye today. I won't pass comment or judge them.

But seriously, a fucking army officer's cap? Bell-end.

Sketch Diary: Space Invaders

Tube travel reached a new level of discomfort this evening when a generously-fed woman decided to straddle me and give her fanny a well earnt rest on my knee.

Sketch Diary: Taxi Driver

I saw this merry little scene near my house the other day.

I couldn't tell if his face meant 'for god's sake, help me' or 'you've seen too much. I'll have to kill you too.'

I walked straight past because it was freezing and frankly I've got enough problems of my own.

Sketch Diary: Tiny Tom and The Angry Scot

Here is an artist's impression of how small I felt after being told off for not helping a very elderly woman struggling with a huge suitcase.

"Ye wouldne even lift your feet up, for an auld lady?" her husband bellowed at me.
I had been daydreaming, wondering if she was going to topple over. It was actually someone else's legs that were in the way, but I felt awful.

"He wouldne even lift his feet up," he boomed, to the whole carriage. "For an auld lady."

"Sorry" I squeaked, but it was too high-pitched and quiet for anyone to hear. It took me until lunchtime to return to normal size.

Sketch Diary: Real Arse Festival

Here's a sketch of an unintentionally hilarious auction on stage at the Great British Beer Festival in Earl's Court.

Two walking stereotypes, pregnant with ale, flogged assorted junk to around 100 drunk students and fat nerds. One provided the banter - a mixture of misogynistic jokes and anti-Budweiser preaching - the other just held up the items, and scowled at the crowd.

Memorable items included:

A bag of 100 beer mats, assorted brands
An untested Grolsch bar light without a plug
A used beer towel, 'needs a rinse'

One lunatic was even mad enough to bid for 'a night out in Horsham with me and Phil for some beer, some more beer, and then possibly even more beer.'
Oh yeah and I spewed on a train on the way home. Damn them and their stinking 7 per cent filth.

Sketch Diary: Is One Year Old

I drew this while vibrating slightly on a long hot train journey so it's not bad. And those are meant to be moles on my face, not splodges of poo or skin cancers.

It's been about a year since I started the sketch diary, and about six months since I chucked it all online. It's been an overwhelming success - the pages of the sketch diary have been viewed 1,805 times. That's more than the number of metres in a mile!

I've received at least several emails from fans and don't at all feel like I'm clogging up the Internet with pointless pictures of my own face. I'm guessing the anniversary of the sketch diary is likely to be celebrated by Time Magazine, but they haven't confirmed anything yet.

Sketch Diary: The Doors of Perception

I saw this unfair but amusing reflection of myself as I came home from work, a bit boozy, on Friday evening. Click on the image to make it larger. Please, come on, click on it.

PLEASE!

Sketch Diary: Smoking Bin

Here's evidence of Hammersmith's nicotine-addled office workers, hundreds of whom simultaneously dump their burning death sticks into a bin by the tube station as they rush home. It reminded me a bit of the smoking thing that mental Pope dude waves about.

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 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: That Wall is Well Wall

One of the few sketches that actually look better after I scanned it. The wall actually looks like a wall. Unfortunately, me and friends look barely human, because I'd redrawn the faces so many times the paper would have broken if I'd continued trying. I copied this from a brilliant arty photo taken in a tube station in Brussels. Now I know the formula for looking cool in pictures (don't smile and stand in a stupid position relative to everyone else), I'll be doing it more often.

Sketch Diary: Lunatic of the Week

Another fascinating local loon. If he was a good tap-dancer, I'd just think he was a twat, but he's manic and rubbish and makes little Michael Jackson wimpers as he pumps away.




Not a particularly good drawing -his head is so big it barely fits between his shoulders -but the tube carriage is pleasing.

Sketch Diary: Beardy Weirdo

I really like this picture. This is exactly the kind of thing I wanted to record in my sketch diary. I'm fascinated by these loons and don't want to forget what makes each one interesting. I know they all smell of concentrated piss, but what was he listening to? A fresh Jamaican trance-hall mix maybe, but probably just taped religous babbling.

I pressed harder this time, and its a bit more ambitous, what with the bus interior and all. Yeah, I know, thanks. Cheers. Nice one. See you later.