Let Me Eat Cake

Well, my second entry (ooer) and I’m already lagging behind. I’d like to say that as a world-weary artist, your earth days are amorphous to me; one of my prolonged periods of alertness could last up to twenty-four hours sans sleep, while others are to be praised if they amount to more that twenty minutes without the whinny of a satisfied snore piercing the air. As such, the concept of a daily blog is pretty loose round these parts. If you don’t like it, I invite you to don tracksuit and jog on.

Part of the reason for the sustained gap between collections of interminable sentences, meandering toward an unsatisfying and baffling conclusion, is the fact that I had the privilege of travelling to my girlfriend and carer’s (my girlfriend is my carer, or at least she should be recognised as such by the government, and a grant be made available immediately) hometown of Waterford, where Whittle’s (my missus) sister-in-law, Leona, made the glorious announcement that she is with sprog. I was furious. Already, this proto-Whittle is taking the sheen from my birthday weekend. O yet-to-be newborn, thou shalt pay a bittersweet price for this ignominy. Congrats to Leona and Moss, Whittle’s brother, and, we assume with no little uncertainty, the father. All this made up for the fact that their local stickball team were molested violently and without recourse in some game that is important to the likes of them. Baby > Parochial Grass-Hockey.

The Birthday haul went well; I obtained from me oul’ ma the lovely Omega Supreme re-release. I now have the complete 1985 Transformers range. I’m such an Autisbot. Got some TF Animated goodies from me Gran, and a phenomenal architecture/reference book from Whittle, along with some CDs; Neon Neon’s Stainless Style and a to-be-returned Dragonforce album. (An obsession with ‘Through The Fire And The Flames’ does not an interest in the band make.) She also provides endless patience, unpredictable shrieks, and much-needed morning fry-ups. Considering it wasn’t a milestone birthday, apart from it being the one-year anniversary of becoming greater than Kurt Cobain, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Brian Jones and Jim Morrison, I was a very lucky boy, receiving three mini-parties across three counties. Mater outdid herself by hand-decorating a cream sponge with cocoa powder in the shape of the Autobot symbol, pictured. She’s clearly got a rattling case of the mentals, but we love her for it.

Sketch Blog time: A Spidey and a Batman. Both on the ‘meh’ side of utter shit. Still, it’s a change to the dayjob. Which is caressing the backs of pensioners’ knees with peacock feathers. The night job is drawing the robots. You’d be surprised which one I garner more internet acclaim for.

You've Been Nicked.