'Twas the Night Before Fistmas...

'Twas the night before Christmas,

And deep in their lair

Assassins lay baking

Their weapons with care.

Their foes were all nestled down snug in their beds,

As visions of skirmishes danced in their heads.

‘Kerchiefs at their throats, and treason in mind,

These devious bakers their talents combined.

One good with alchemy the other construction,

An evil intent their MO for production.

They sharpened their blades and measured their spices,

And baked a whole tray full of deadly devices.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,

The bite of the wind and the shriek of a crow.

All played a part in their reprobate scheme

To make killer cookies with a seasonal theme.

They spoke not a word as they granted their treats,

To the cutthroats and cretins they knew from the streets.

Sweet on the tooth, with a sting in the tail,

Perfect for tea parties or a spot of blackmail.

As the dim dawn of Christmas appeared in a sliver,

They swiftly disposed of the evidence down river.

You could hear them exclaim, as they drove out of sight,

"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a clean fight!"

Thank you to one Sruli Recht for saving Christmas and flying co-baker on this one.

New Sugar

Most excellent online publication New Sugar recently published a handful of my work in their second edition, bless them. Here is a sneak preview of the showcase. But please do pop along to their site and download the magazine if a) you're at all interested in what's new and super sweet in illustration, 2) you're keen to hear how I answer such questions as "Favourite biscuit?", and thirdly) well, actually there is no thirdly. But who am I to contest the magic number?

Boys, boys, boys.

So I've decided that it is my duty, as a professional, to study boys. Illustratively speaking. In detail. See what I do for you people? Always taking the tough assignments.

This winsomely skew-whiff fellow is the first in a series. More to come.

Pay-pah.

If I were a bird, once I was done with free-wheelin' in the clouds and conversatin' with bees and flowers and things, I would return home to my nest. And what would my nest be made of? Why, paper, natch. Scraps of ancient manuscript and offcuts of pricey lineney stationery and whatever bits of delicious, battered, mysterious parchment I could get my claws into. Would I be a bowerbird? Probably. But then again, it's only hoarding when left unused, stockpiling, right? And I use my paper, every last shred.

The thing about beautiful paper is the drawing often emerges from it. That's half the work done before you even begin.

Why I Heart Free London Museums (# 2687 in a series).

The rap sheet of Pandora is long, the beautiful devilry of her seductive charms blamed for liberating all the evils of mankind. The original femme fatale, she kept nothing on her bedside table but a box full of hope.

Helen had more of the victim about her. Hatched from the egg of Zeus, kidnapped by lusty Athenians, courted by Gods and monsters, and raped by Paris, she now stands prostrate in cracked marble watching the tourist trade glance by.

You can find these heroines, these contradictory models of womanhood, not in Grecian fields of weatherworn ruins, but sitting primly in the great sculpture hall of the Victoria and Albert museum. (Just after ye olde gift shoppe, innit.) No man has flung themselves at their feet for some time. Few look upon them now as the goddesses they once were. From their modern vantage point, it's just a daily procession of list-ticking sightseers and the unseeing galleratti. They're long since used to being overlooked.

Perhaps why they were so happy to be sketched.

Wouldn't you just kill for one of those mythological profiles?

Flawless coverage.

Cheap ass poster paint, when found in the right lolly hue, with an opacity to rival pea soup, and the consistent performance of a Broadway hoofer, is a joy rivalled by no other. And when it's on sale at Cass for the low, low price of ten pots for a pound, well then, it's pretty much Christmas. Check the coverage of that orange, yo.

Seeing the wood for the trees

Branch Immersion is a folksy outfit comprising my dear friend Rix and his chums. Strummy, yummy, thoughtful aural whimsy. I'm working on album art for their upcoming LP release. Check them on myspaz: http://www.myspace.com/branchimmersion

A Courtauld exclusive...

Today I spent one glorious hour wandering the hallowed expanses of the Courtauld Gallery. Contained therein is a bite-sized collection that satisfies like a seven-course banquet. I was positively licking the walls, groaning with culture-lust. And yet there was something far quieter than Modigliani's fleshy females, something more delicate than Monet's dappled waterscapes that caught my eye on the way down the stairs...

Illustration in three dimensions and two timezones...

In the summer time, when the pollen hangs heavy and promise fills London's parks, most folx pass time time sinking extra-strength brews and messing about in boats. Me? More likely to be messing about in hobby shops, I'm afraid. Sad? Or the way of the future?

Le visage, c'est bon.

Faces fascinate me. Especially faces of those I love. Or admire. So I am busy fashioning a collection of them. This is Sruli Recht, a man of many talents, just beyond the cusp of greatness, and possessing a lifelong platinum membership to my Mutual Appreciation Society. Have a look at his wonderful works at http://www.srulirecht.com/. Should you like to be immortalised as Mr Recht has been, rest assured I take requests.

I is a wrap star, innit.

Contrary to popular belief, the life of a pen for hire is not all champagne receptions and diamond-studded stilettos. At least not every week. Allowing oneself the luxury of a life carousing with pens and scraps of paper comes at a cost. Sacrifices must be made. Corners must occasionally be cut. And presents for loved ones purchased under extreme financial duress must be gussied up as much as is humanly possible. I know I will have reached wrapping nirvana when I can blithely impart a gift of an unwashed football sock, secure in the knowledge that the beauty of its papery veneer means it will remain forever under wraps.

La, la, laaaaaaa.

I sing in a choir, n'kay? And before you start with the rolling of the eyes and the chucking of the hymn books already, let me explain. We sing pop songs and edgy vocal electro mashups at nightclubs. Can I get a woop, woop? (Please? Just one woop would do...). Anyway, apart from me being top soprana (aka "The Screecher"), I am also self-appointed choir stylist and Chief Producer of Gig Posters*. Feel my raw power. Here's some of my postery handiwork. Oh, and pop along to see The Heard next time we materialise in the gig guide. You won't be disappointed. Swears.

* Capitals author's own.

A few of my favourite things.

An amalgam of three things dear to my heart: Bosi (my cat), plaques (and everything they stand for), and plaster rabbits (I'm only human). I made this melange-homage to all three some time ago, but it is still dear to my heart.

Ladies with pretty voices.

The crackling rasp of Nina Simone getting over a lost lover. Honeyed chirrups from Joan Baez, dreaming of a brighter day. Ella telling you Christmas is coming, there are such things as happy endings, and that love can come in many shapes and sizes. Such things help me to get out of bed in the morning and slide towards slumber at night. Here's an online album cover I made for a friend of mine who was clever enough to put together a compilation championing all the ladies with pretty voices out there.