No Brainer...

A few months ago it was discovered that a particularly aggressive cancer tumour was blowing up a bit of a storm in the right sided frontal lobe of my mind. (The ‘drawing department’ according to some neurological theories (how ironic)). I’ve now had some big surgery to scoop most of it out and intensive radiotherapy to blast the residue (“some little tentacles reaching into the corpus callosum ... important to get them because that’s what makes you who you are as a person...” said one specialist). Not sure if it’s worked yet, but we’ll see.... I’m currently laying low full of unpleasant steroids and waiting to see what I’ll turn into... (When I lay in the machine being bombarded with radioactive beams all I could think about was applying to join the Fantastic Four). Thanks to all my family and friends for their staunch and unlimited support in recent months. The main effect so far seems to be a seeming limitless fatigue and an inability to spend more than thirty minutes a day on a computer (or with a sketchbook) but I hope to be back maintaining everything as usual on a regular and normal basis again v. soon. Love to one and all. X.

Out of the Euro's ....

... but we don't really mind.

Lateness...

Due to a little recent ill health, orders for prints, artwork, t-shirts etc and responses to e-mails are all running a tad late. But everything is being processed and service will return to normal as soon as possible. Some new designs too are on the way. Thanks for everyone's patience....

Towards Abstraction

Leap Day and it feels like spring is already here. Hope this mild weather continues. In the meantime, apart from the observational drawing that still keeps me occupied there's a whole load of other stuff bubbling just beneath the surface. It seems to be dictating it's own direction and despite still being rooted in the visible world it really appears to be straining towards a more abstracted view of things...

A Bit Sheepish

Ah.. the season of wooly jumpers. Alright, a complete break from footballers - here’s some sheep that graze a field not far from here: I was up there the other day and thought what a perfect subject to kick off the new year. Okay you see sheep everywhere, we take them completely for granted - little dots of cotton wool slowly working their way around a field. Are they really intrinsically comic? To me they are gentle, placid creatures happy to mind their own business and extremely restful to sit nearby and quietly observe.
These ones are Norfolk Horned - an ancient breed and apparent precursors of the Suffolk Black-Faced strain which are also popular around here -some of Suffolk’s finest medieval towns and villages were built on the back of the wool business.

Me and Bobby Moore...

I’m not a great lover of football anymore. I watch the occasional big game on tv and I still follow West Ham’s results in that Pavlovian saturday afternoon knee-jerk manner. And of course it remains a sort of lingua franca between men all around the world. But it’s changed a lot since I was a regular matchgoer. The strange middle-class-isation of the sport in the eighties and the influx of grotesque amounts of money (largely from Murdoch’s Sky project) have not been completely beneficial as far as I’m concerned. Last year I was saddened to read of the premature death of Bobby Moore’s son and it made me reflect on a little period of my life that once seemed so intense.

When I was small I would draw footballers incessantly. In fact for one phase that’s all I would draw. My Mum got a bit concerned I think and once said to me “I think you need a rest from footballers, draw something different”. But for 10 year old me there was nothing else ...

I suppose the brick reflects the new hooligan fashion of those days.

Oh look - it's the original Frank Lampard looking remarkably like his son!

More Violence! (Also note the careful observation of Puma and Adidas boots - v. important.)

I was actually born nearer to White Hart Lane than Upton Park (I only realised this when it was far too late), but we moved to Stratford in 1962. WHU won the F.A. Cup in '64, the European Cup Winners Cup in '65 and, as everybody knows, the 1966 World Cup. How could any little boy not want to grow up to be Bobby Moore?I was going to say I saw him play hundreds of times but that can’t be true. But it must have been scores and scores of games. In truth, he’d often have an indifferent match. He had a relaxed, nonchalent way with him but also some sort of star charisma that made him stand out from his team-mates (younger readers: think Beckham). When he ran from the tunnel (strolled would perhaps be more apt), he somehow appeared luminescent, the vibrant claret and blue and his blond curly hair catching the light. Six feet tall but he seemed bigger and had a natural authority that couldn’t help but reassure you. His play was always graceful, at times almost without effort. He never had the volatile saturnine edge of George Best, Bobby seemed more wholesome, but also good and kind and you instinctively felt that with Bob in charge of defence everything would turn out okay.

My Dad got to meet him a couple of times and said he appeared almost shy and lacking in confidence in real life. He certainly liked a drink. And he had an eye for the girls. And if he’d had the freedom of contract of today’s players he'd probably never have stayed at Upton Park (He wanted to go to Spurs at one point, but the old WH board wouldn’t wear it - instead they brought his mate Jimmy Greaves to UP).

Although I have photos inscribed to me from Bob I never did meet him face to face. The photo below is the closest I got...


This remarkable image appears in Bobby’s first ‘autobiography’ (Bobby Moore - My Soccer Story). It’s taken in Stratford Broadway, E.15, from outside Newham Town Hall. It’s 1964. Bob himself is holding the cup aloft on the coach, but... wait for it... below him in the crowd is ME (very blonde hair) on the shoulders of my uncle Kenny. Also there is my younger brother Matthew (pea jacket) astride my Dad and also my Grandad Charlie and Great Uncle John. I had been watching from the roof of The Puddings for hours waiting for the coach to arrive. Then when it did, my Dad and Kenny grabbed me and my brother and waded into the crowd to get us a closer look.

It remains quite clear as a memory. I remember how bizarre it seemed that grown men were sitting on top of traffic lights. Normal rules seemed suspended and anything appeared suddenly permissible. West Ham were on top of the world and everyone seemed so happy. And that’s how you begin a lifetime of footballing disappointment....

Come on Big Sam!