Wednesday, December 08, 2010

Short tale for Christmas





Can you believe it? I'd been on the waiting list for a stay at The Despicable Inhospitable Hotel for over five years, then suddenly, I get a 'phone call from a man called Elvis: 'Mr Rudzinsky, it's your lucky day, we've got you a Christmas reservation, especially targeted at couples wanting a crummy seasonal romantic get-away.' Jesus, I thought, is that some kind of new spin on customer service?

The last person I'd want to take on a romantic get-away is my shapeless wife, Rachel.
I've been telling Rachel to go to hell for over thirty years.

As in all hotels of note, this one comes with the highest of highest recommendations, from the best of best people, though it depends on what you mean by 'the best.' I have a best suit which I wear at funerals, but it doesn't mean that I like it. I wear it a lot now, I guess I'm of that age. A person with a global profile, a power-wallet, and a big mouth, is all it takes to puff up an hotel. Everyone who is visibly a somebody, and even an invisible nobody-noddy, hungers to stay there. The Despicable Inhospitable, is the most expensive hotel in the world. I had to go there, in spite of that telephone call. I took Julie. Julie doesn't know I'm married.


Set off one of the most desolate spots on the planet, The Despicable Inhospitable Hotel, can only be accessed by a ski-plane. I can't take seriously a plane with propellers, it's like being inside an interminable whoopee cushion. Julie didn't know what I was talking about, she wasn't compus mentis, thanks to the Valium and three Barcardi and Coke's. She barely noticed the pop star, Morris Smacker, try hitting on her in the First Class Lounge. 'Who's the grandaddy?' he asked her, as we boarded the aircraft.


Once that can of sardines commenced it's turbulent descent, passengers were near stupefied by the sight of the hotel which shot out from the side of a mountain like a giant golden splinter. It stretched way way up into the snow clouds, and beyond.
It is fair to say that neither the namby-pamby nor the lilly-livered arrived at this romantic Christmas destination in one piece. There were a number of these guys traveling on our plane, they all had that flaky look, especially the younger ones. Within minutes of disembarkation, that nancy pop star was the first to be ripped apart by three hungry bears. Hunger always looks better behind expensive shades. I took off my sunglasses when the snow turned pink.
If you did chance to arrive at the hotel intact, there was no bell boy to take command of your suitcases, no bootlicking receptionist to greet you with a warm smile, nor a concierge to dance attendance to your every whim. Where is everyone? ‘Elivs? Elvis? Ya hear me?’ No answer. A gold key marked for my attention, was left on reception. Julie sighed and stretched out her arms. ‘Let’s just go to bed,’ she said picking up the key. I was thankful Morris had gottten gobbled up and not me. That stupid punk won’t be pawing Julie’s long soft limbs again.

We stepped inside the elevator and set down our luggage, some goof, dressed up as Santa, jumped into the cage. 'Ho, ho, ho, good evening, Mr Rudzinsky, I'm your elevator operator for this evening. You're staying in the Penthouse Suite, is that correct? Allow me, if you please' he went on, sliding the scissor gate shut and depressing a button marked 'Penthouse' on the control panel. I sensed his smirk whilst I fumbled inside in my coat pockets for my blue pills. Darn, if they weren't in my pockets maybe they were in my jacket, or in the suitcase? I should have taken one earlier. I didn't want bendable Julie falling asleep on me. 'Are you okay, Rudzie?' said Julie helping me take off my coat, 'you look awful unsettled.' 'That red moth ball gives me the creeps, it's like he's tanked up on something. I've never liked Santa. As a kid, I always thought he was a drunk. Santa tapped me on the shoulder, 'Mr Rudzinsky, Sir, you're wife called earlier, she wants to speak to you urgently regarding the matter of your daughter's twentieth wedding anniversary .' Julie's face screwed up, I've seen smoother looking walnuts. Examinations of the heart and soul are seldom complimentary, especially within the confines of a gilded cage. 'Julie, honey, that stupid crusty's got his wires mixed up. I've never been hitched.' But she wouldn't listen. If that punk hadn't opened his mouth, I'd be pawing Julie right now. When the elevator reached the top floor, Julie kicked me out .
I last saw Julie kissing Santa. There was no mistletoe. That crushed me. No goddam mistletoe. He was pawing her long legs. When she did manage to catch a glance at me, she yelled: 'Go to hell.'



Friday, November 12, 2010

Images 35, the best of contemporary British illustration


Described as the ultimate prestigious jury-selected illustration source book competition in the UK, it fills me with delight to report that the two pieces of artwork I submitted for Images 35 actually got selected. I am thrilled.

The jury for Images 35 are:
Sam Freeeman – Art Director, Design Week (SP and DE)
Harriet Russell – illustrator (SP and DE)
Martin Premm - Director Premm Design Ltd (SP and DE)

Martin Harrison – The Times (ED, AD, BK)
Sheri Gee – Art Director, The Folio Society (ED, AD, BK)
James Joyce – illustrator (AD, BK, ED)

Mike Jolley – Art Director, Templar Publishing (CB, NT, NM)
Fred Flade – Design/Art Director, Poke London (CB, NT, NM)
Geoofrey Pais – BBC Learning - Schools (CB, NT , NM)

Thursday, October 14, 2010

The Big Draw Festival London Friday 22nd & Sat 23rd October 2010



This year I've devised a 3 dimensional Fantastical Fountains making workshop for the free Big Draw Festival London. In my team are the amazing talented cartoonists/illustrators:

We will be holding our free Fantastical Fountains workshop on Saturday 23rd October 2010 from 3pm-5pm at The Scoop More London. Pop along and say 'hello'. Why not join us in making a fantastic fountain of your very own. See you there. We are dot number 6 on the 'clickable' map below.


Monday, June 21, 2010

'Double Expressive' postcards


Wrote a handful of 'Double Expressive' postcards this evening. Writing and posting letters is so much more enjoyable than email.

Wednesday, June 16, 2010

Jenni Murray's Women's Hour Radio 4 on why are there so few female political cartoonists











With ref. to Women's Hour on Radio 4 last week on the topic of why there are so few female political cartoonists in print in Britain today, one would argue there are many talented female political cartoonists in the UK doing their stuff, not necessarily in the print medium such as the fabulous Jacky Fleming, but online, take BlueLou for instance, she's political and online prolific.


Political cartooning is not my arena, I am however female and a cartoonist and bloody livid about stuff and felt enraged having to listen to crap on the radio about 'women not being angry enough.' When women, in Britain, get angry, we are labelled lunatics, unstable, attributed with untold personality disorders, advised to go to the doctor or shrink or take anger management classes or CBT, and of course, how many times has a woman been told she needs a good shag to quell her rage? It is tiresome. Some of us may put up and shut up and grow clusters of creative anger fibroids-they usually manifest via slow burn.

And now for a non scatological cartoon sans farts, sans merde, sans anything clever and of course, sans humour. It is called:

Cause and effect (Botox)

Monday, April 19, 2010

A trip to the British Museum with some rare coins.











An insightful trip to the British Museum with learned artist mates, took place last week. We covered the new Medieval Europe gallery in room 40.
A brush pen isn’t the ideal vehicle for sketching however, it’s all I could find in my handbag at the time. Here are some wee sketches from the day trip. After two hours of sight seeing, we wound up at the London Review Bookshop for some wild tonics and cake but our intrigue did not stop there, afterwards we thumbed through some wonderful illustrated first folio editions.

Wednesday, April 07, 2010

Being top at failure. Brush pen drawing of Mrs George from Peake's Mr Pye.























If life is all about failing, I would prefer to be a winner, not a whiner or a wino. I suppose I have whined a tiny bit just by stating this fact. But failure is about erm, failing and some more, some humans like me, excel at failure. Some don't, which is either bullshit, or they prefer not not shout about their fallibility due to XYZ. Possibly arrogance and some dumb arse power game. Failures should be celebrated and rewarded. Why? Because the process involves fighting through fearlessness in order to stretch ourselves out like chewing gum, in the slightest possible hope of finding new form, new ideas,something, anything, rather than the more of the same. It carries risk, health problems, financial burden, and you may even lose a batch of really conventional bores from your life (which is actually a blessed relief but the downside is you may end up lonely). People who fail, ultimately, make everyone else feel fabulous, albeit for a moment. Are you feeling fabulous? I do hope so.

Here is a sketch I did this evening which needs further developing. Ok, let's cut the crap. It has failed in more ways than one. And that is ok. I am calm. The wind still blows and the sun may not emerge until till next autumn. But I am always strangely excited by cocking it up, erm, to put it in the vernacular so to speak. And why? Because. There, that is my succinct explanation: because.

The character in the image, wearing the bizarre head gear which looks more like a benign growth, is Mrs George from Mervyn Peake's novel Mr Pye. She's a cookie of the tough molar breaking variety, you don't want that sort hanging about inside your biscuit tin for too long-assuming you own such an item. In the novel, she never, not once, removes her hat but I'm sure one could just catch a wiff stench of stale hair.

As you can see in the sketch below, I had a problem remembering Mrs George's leg count. I do believe the character should be mistress of two pins rather than three or four. You see how I have failed to acknowledge how many limbs a human being should be in possession of? Are these the sketches of an imbecile and the fearless scribblings of a half wit who knows nothing about anatomy? You can tell me in person, or write to me even, I will shake your hand and maybe even agree or disagree with you. And if you don't care, well, who cares? I will enjoy the attention either way. Now do please go away and remember to feel good about yourself.







Saturday, April 03, 2010

A short story about internet love 'Dip'




















I dipped into Mafia Wars, when the snow came. That's where I met Lucky, through an online computer game. She fought tough. I got excited by her industrial strength skin, so I plunged in at the deep end and wrote, 'Will you marry me, Lucky? I am all alone in the world.' She replied, 'Have you got a UK passport, Rocky?' 'Of course my darling gold haired beauty.' She asked me for my real name. 'My surname is Dip. My first name is Sherbert.' 'I prefer Rocky,' she wrote.


By the time Lucky arrived at Terminal 3, Heathrow Airport, the snow had almost melted. She said I looked older than on my photograph. Although I am 80, I sent Lucky a photograph of me aged 30. Lucky did not have gold hair. She had brown hair. She was fat. This girth was not obvious in her photograph. I felt cheated. After two days of honeymoon, I shed my trousers for the last time. She wore them thereafter. They split. Lucky dreams about dogs and sings mournful songs about her homeland. I think she's dipped into a depression, so I am back playing online war games again. Women are difficult and sometimes obtuse. Lucky tells me she is no longer interested in Mafia Wars because she now plays a war game of her very own making.


















Monday, February 22, 2010

London Illustrators' Gathering-10th March 7pm, Clerkenwell, London 2010

Check out Paul Bommer’s website for further details and feast your eyes on his glorious clickable image:

London Illustrators’ Gathering

London Illustrators’ Gathering (LIG)

Wednesday 10 March 2010, 7pm onwards
@
The Crown Tavern
43 Clerkenwell Green
London
Ec1R 0EG

All Image Makers Welcome!

Sunday, January 31, 2010

Wednesday, January 27, 2010