Father, it has been nine days since my last muffin.
They’re probably my biggest weakness, y’see. Oh, sure, I’ve enjoyed two scones and a bar or two of Wispa in the interim, but the muffin represents my Achilles heel. Or, as it will become known, Artist’s Arse.
I’m fast developing one. I’m not chunky, but long periods at the drawing board, and very little else in my life, is leading to a bit of a spread. Aside from my laptop, my drawing gear and reference material, the one object that remains in my peripheral vision for most of the day is my cheekily expanding gut. So I’m doing my bit to shame myself into getting off the Muffin horse. I may only visit here sporadically, but I see it as a public, if necrotically quiet, place. As such, if I have a ‘Days Sans Muffins’ counter to greet me, I know that I must keep strong. For you, loyal readers. So I expect you to offer the same support to me as you would your favourite recovering junkie rock star. For are we not the one and the same, when it comes down to it?
Of course, I’m already planning my first relapse. Scheduled for roughly a month from now, there’s yet another dreaded wedding to attend. How come all my friends are clear-minded, right-thinking men-children, who show little-to-laughable sign of getting hitched, when all Whittle’s hangers-on (And I don’t mean you, Colette and Keith, I bloody love you two.) are spitefully conceding defeat, and arranging weddings (in fucking CORK, of all God’s wretched places) primarily to spite and inconvenience me? Yeesh. So, it’ll be muffins, or crystal meth. Meff or Muff. And as moreish as the meth is, I do like the sodden hug of a succulent muffin.
I’m trying to fit in spurts in the park as well, and not in a George Michael way. I’m getting better at making time for a power…well, walk is pushing it. Meander? Lumber? Mosey? A power-meander, we’ll settle on, through the beautiful Bushy Park in Terenure. And, I’ve got meself a tote-bag to accommodate my shoes as I go rollerblading, a feat I’m aiming to achieve next week. Leafy parks in autumn probably aren’t the best circumstances to introduce yourself to, what I’m sure you will agree, is an extreme sport. But I can cut a swathe through the clumps of vegetation as they strew the paths. I can be the leaf-cleaver; the foliage-slicer; shredding my way through acorn and squirrel alike. It’s going to be fucking rad.
Better remember to draw a comic…
Today’s sketch: A gift commissioned by Titan editor Steve White, for assistant editor Ned Hartley’s birthday. He’s a Hulk fanatic, and Steve asked all the artists he know to contribute a Hulk sketch for Ned, who I had the pleasure of drinking with in O’Neill’s of London last August. I gamely assisted, and submitted the Hulk you see below you, feeling chuffed that I’d contributed to someone’s very happy birthday. And then Steve White told me who else contributed Hulks: Paul Grist, D’Israeli, Liam Sharp, Gary Frank, Tim Sale…
Fuck’s sake. Why’d I bother?
Anyway, there it is, done between panels of Max Dinos #2. Shoulder’s a bit off, but I’m sure all the above have anatomy issues too. Namely, Artist’s Arse.
You’ve been Nicked