Lesbians, Robots and Dying Alone...


My job is brilliant sometimes. The current issue of GQ features a piece about swinger's clubs which I illustrated. By way of research I had to look at pictures of lesbians on the internet. I felt for their mothers. Above is the picture, which is currently starring in a postcard mailshot I'm about to send out (as soon as I get round to purchasing my own bodyweight in first class stamps).

An uneventful weekend. But: I have just received the televisual equivalent of a Sunday comfort shag from David Attenborough spooning sweet nothings about sand dunes into my gaping, ravenous ear. Is this what heroin feels like?

Meanwhile, my friend Gemma and I are playing Dying Alone Trumps:

Her: “Dying suddenly, of an unknown disease in your sheltered accommodation, with your hand just inches away from the warden alarm cord, and then being found about a week later with all your cats feasting on your flesh and licking your dead eyeballs.”

Me: “Care home. Electric shock to the pacemaker caused by over-intimate congress with a nylon-Thinsulate balaclava, stolen 50 years ago from the only human who has ever touched you, an obsessive-compulsive haberdasher named Kendall, who stroked you with his left elbow on a Wednesday afternoon in John Lewis because the voices in his head told him his pet salamander would die if he didn’t”.

This is the best game I have played yet. But who will win? Stay tuned to find out.

I have been trying to write cartoons based on improbable job interviews. I even lay awake imagining the conversations. This, I am afraid, is what my life is like. I got this far:

Interviewer: “You say your interests are socialising, reading, going to the cinema and turning into a lorry."

Optimus Prime [for it is he]: "Yes."

Interviewer: "I'm quite interested in this last one - when do you usually like to turn into a lorry?"

Optimus Prime: “Well, I like to be a lorry when I’m out and about. I don't want to alarm people by waltzing about in my robot form. Of course, sometimes people will stroll into Clinton's Cards when I'm out shopping and wonder why there's a heavy goods vehicle parked in the aisle, but they're generally more curious than frightened; they think it's a promotion of some sort.”

And so it goes on, until I fall asleep. Sad, but true.