- “Bar Maid” (click to enlargenize)
It was an equinox, armistice, shrove-wednesday in August and all the poppies were held aloft. Winston Churcheel’s brother’s ghost flicked the switch and illuminated the London Ear to great pomp and cemetery. All things elsewhere were verbidden and forgotten. ‘Twas the summer of tough-love.
After long absence, and quite out of the blue-hue, our hero had returned unannounced. We were Englishmen, and as such, we lacked the imagination to reacquaint anywhere but the local rub-a-dub. We propped the bar at The Toffee & Sausage for one golden and giddy arvo of catch-up.
Two things struck me and clagged like woolsorter’s pneumonia. For once, The Artist was in possession of some moolah. (I didn’t ask. He hadn’t sold any artwork in donkeys). But more surprisingly still, he seemed almost happy to be back in the game.
Seven or eight warm n’ stagnants hardly touched the sides when I noticed he’d started directing his fanciful attentions exclusively toward the blonde, gusset-busting cliché on the business-side of the bar (known locally as “Ello Darrrlin”). The sketch was a great likeness - and I couldn’t be happier. Three hours later, through back-whacked eyes and crumbly loaf, came this malformation like it’d been blood-churned through the cogs of a murderous Chinese whisper. Happy days.
- “Dream Baby” (click for engorgement)
When the Space-babies rise again they are likely to descend from the North. The United States of Fear is quickly disarmed, dismembered and re-positioned. Europa soon follows. Eventually, the Chinamunn relents too. Overpowered with minimum fuss, he lays down his weaponry and gun-tools.
A breed of soldier-babies are turned loose to sheath the planet in a muck-film of wizz, bang and pop. Once the fiendish scheme is sequenced the true takeover can begin. You will kneel at the fat cankles of an infant super-race. Men, women and proper children are starved of solids and forced to wear “the stain” - drooled upon their shoulders as a burpy symbol of compliance.
All the dummies are thrown from all the buggies. Earth history is re-calculated and re-set to trimester-time. “Burp Thy Master” becomes a thrice-daily tantric call to prayer. Emancipation of the youngling is complete and nature is right-sided again for the first time since Ice Age 3: “Puffin Batter”. But where do they come from? What do they want with us? Scientists remain confuzzled…
- “Trip to the Doctors” (click for engorgement)
This is Dr. Cock-Robbins. And he wants to ease you back into ill-health.
PREVIOUSLY ON BLAH BLAH
Hot Heavens - a triptych arrives!
Detail of part 3; “Blood”
Never one for the sibylline, I was flabbered to see this empyrean object land with a plethora of prose-posies in tow. Everything seemed normal - the customary brown card - except this time, swaddled in burnt banana-leaf and etched atop ancient stool was a far from plainspoken invite to, “View through stew - like a storyboard flawed”. Well, ok. But it went on…
Read more …
- 1. “View From a Child’s Window” (click to monstrousize)
- 2. “When They Cut Down Our Tree”
- 3. “Years Later, I Return. Nothing Has Changed”
Rope. Rape. Earth. Blood.
- “Rent Day” (click to enlargenize)
You’ve been here. I think The Artist has more than adequately captured the savage, sack-shredding terror we all feel when Mrs Street-Porter comes-a-crowing. “Caw caw! Such fine gentlemen as yourselves are encouraged to pay “in kind”. Uchhhh. As you’d expect from the master, excellent defined bloodshot and cracked crown work. I find the nose particularly harrowing. Says more about the anguish of rented accommodation than any written-word ever could-has.
- “Baby’s Mum” (click to embiggen)
Good shoddy, Lord-Lucan-of-Lurid, would you look at that. As if loathing next-door’s baby wasn’t enough, he starts up at the poor cankle-biter’s Mammy. I humbly suggest a quiet moment to gawp jawline. Then free-gag at the expansive neck, unctuous eye-liner and brittle Barnet. For once, the teeth remain un-grumed.
Wearing a top-hat and chaining the old snouts whilst hanging languid over the neighbour’s fence, it’s likely he caught her eye at some point. Concieveable these two share a sodden n’ salacious mal-history? Not even he could stoop that porcine. Could he? Still…begs the question, what did they ever do to him? Apart from look aesthetically repugnant. Utilising the parlance of the day, might I enquire sir, would one tap that?
Oh blow. Sweet saviour. The Artist is back…
- “Bat Joke” (click to embiggen)
But who is this in disguise? Like “Spidermun”, something from the weird window. Have to confess, I’ve never once seen The Artist with a comic book. The green thatch reminds me of greengrocer-stalls and a cheap man’s Christmas dinner. The eyes and nose are mere spectral slot…and what’s with the hoody chest-hair? Ok, let it go…
All of a sudden, a slapdash of colour. Still not over that baby yet then? Of course, if this isn’t impressionist then I fear for our little fella’s babbie buds. Without doubt one of the more grotesque and sinister mono-brows ever to churn my barf. It’s terror in the playground, people! Grab the “old willow” and swing away, my son, swing away.
- “When I Ate the Birthday Cake” (click to embiggen)
Can we all think back to the last time we ate birthday cake? Quick question. Did your nose bleed? Me neither. It’s as if the young Artist has yammed the spongey spoils chopsward with such wanton panic-glut that he’s beplastered his schnozz to bits in the process. That or the provocative claret comes as standard in his “selfs”? Guess we’ll never know. Isn’t Art fun, boys n’ girls? (No…seriously, is it? I have no idea).
- “The Fat Boy From School” (click to protuberate)
It came as some surprise. The Artist’s submissions had taken on a distinctly autobiographical theme. I grouchily slouchered on a spotted Ottoman in the once hubbub studio and mused the candour of this previously unobserved bent.
The simplest thing to say would be, “Regretful anamnesis brought about by a heightened state of purdah.” (Say it. I can wait). But why the chilling, chubster-child mockery here? Was fat boy also school-bully? And did the bully bully The Artist? Had he finally misplaced his marbles completely? Or worse still, left them on the stairwell for everyone else to break their necks?
Look, all I know is, that there grin gives me the heebs. Whoever said “larger” folk are big doughballs of jolly-jolly has never seen an American lick a stamp. Wouldn’t wish that on my worstest frenemy. Good-day-sir!