I can’t believe Ronnie O’Sullivan has been punished for asking a journalist if they fancied a nosh on his microphone. The man’s a genius, clearly.

On my way out of Ravenscourt Park today, I walked past a gang of little rudeboy whippersnappers on bikes. They were playing a game which involved throwing coins at a wall. One of the scamps crooned to me: “Oi boss! Oi boss! It’s my Birthday today…” I grinned from ear-to-ear and said: “Oh really? Happy Birthday!” In a over-effusive yet genuine voice. To my surprise the little tyke cocked his head over, leaned back on his bicycle, and said “Ta very much!” whilst issuing a thumbs up. I walked off thinking to myself that surely something else was supposed to have happened

Harry Enfield was filming a scene for his new series in my local greasy spoon (called ‘The Ritz’, truthfully enough) on King Street. He stood out like a big burning satsuma in the middle of the crowd of plastic extras.

Extras are a funny lot. They are the sort of people you’d buy from Ikea.

I have an itch to paint more portraits. I want to get some more photos and music up on the website too.

Someone said to me the other day that the reason why the England football team doesn’t win everything is because there are so many foreign players in the premiership. Obviously there must be some sort of conspiracy (led by ‘fucking’ Arsene Wenger according to him) to keep all the good English players down and out of the League by importing lots of inferior and over-priced foreigners to lower the standard of football in this country. There are only 191 English premiership players left now. It’s a wonder they can field a full team. I did pause for a second and suggest, incredible it may be, that perhaps we don’t have very good players in this country. He then reminded me that I must be racist to suggest such a thing. All countries are fundamentally the same, and in this state of affairs, clearly, England would win every match. “If it weren’t for the fucking foreigners” I imagine he forgot to add because it was just so obvious.

New portrait up on the website:

I was quite satisfied with the rhythm of the colours, but I am still finding my way with this series.  I might develop the series into oil paintings or exploded designs.

The rest of this portrait series can be found here on the website.

I am still on the lookout for more subjects so, as ever, email me if you are interested in becoming extremely famous.

Euro 2008 begins.

I love watching sport of all descriptions. The more arcane the sport the better, usually. Football is alright too. A lot of my friends, however, dislike football, more specifically the watching of it, intensely. I think they have more of a problem with the supporters who can be, let’s be honest, a load of fucking toe-rags.

Four years ago on a weekend such as this Euro 2004 was starting. As was the first Venn music festival in Bristol. I was walking with my friend Ray along Stokes Croft when I had one of the most memorable encounters of my life.

I think we were off to get some audio cables or something for Venn. We were almost at Maplin, deep in some conversation or other under the baking sun, when I noticed loads of cheesy wotsits on the pavement under my feet. Then I saw a can of Fanta open and apparently undrunk by the shop-front we were passing. The third thing I saw was horrific. It was an England supporter, reduced to putrid bestiality.

This dude was completely fucked up. He was no aryan pinup to begin with. But by the time a dozen or so lagers and the raging failure of an England match had sunk in he was truly a work of human shit. The thirty year old bastard was bull-necked and barrel-bellied with an insufficient thatch of oily hair. He was covered in grease and sweat, sliming up his cherished England shirt. There was a vile yellow paste of mucus and vomit flowing down his face from his nose into the folds of his double chin. He stank of Lynx spray and bile (although it could have just been the Lynx I suppose). As his body trembled under the crippling paralysis of the booze, his eyes stared into a distant void. At least that is what I thought until I realized he was actually staring at me (or at least trying to).

So, having stumbled from the pub to the corner shop in search of some nutritionally negligible snacks, and having decided to spill his crisps and lose his drink within ten seconds of leaving the shop, this depraved zombie of spunk had sadly turned his attention on me. Presumably he wanted to punch me. Or wretch on me. Whatever his intentions, I am pretty sure he wasn’t going to perform the Japanese tea ceremony.

I was trying to figure out how to break it to him that I had already found love, when he made what appeared to be an attacking movement. I almost vomited myself at the very thought of coming into physical contact with the walking offcut. So Ray and I turned away and walked on to Maplin. When we had reached the shop door, about twenty metres away, I looked back and saw the oaf coming at us like a ball of used nappies rolling along the pavement. He ended up running into a load of bikes chained against a lamp post. I had never felt sorry for a bicycle before.

We left him there to his fate. I dread to think how his family/mother found him when he eventually made it home. Covered in blood, dirt, and tramp semen. Yuck.

Essentially the moral of this is that a. humankind has no boundaries when it comes to self-abasement; and b. supporting England in the European Cup can really turn you into a cunt, if you aren’t one already, so it is probably a good thing they did not qualify.

p.s. I would be disbelieving if anyone could suggest an example of a more disgusting state of filth, depravity, and self-pollution. But I would love to hear it anyway, especially if it is really gratuitous.

Check out this dude I saw on the tube the other day:

I deduced that he is about to play the role of King Henry VIII in a play or on the telly or something from the following observations:

• He looks like Henry VIII
• He was reading a book about Henry VIII
• He looks like an actor – he was wearing combats and white trainers, despite being clearly over 80.

A smoker was going on at me yesterday about how he was sick of all these self-righteous ex-smokers going on about how bad a habit it is. Also that it was his human-right to do whatever he wanted to himself, and that by smoking he was standing up “for political incorrectness” and “for personal freedom.” He forgot to add “for paying corporations and governments £6 a pop for a pack of finger-licking cancer up one’s arse.” The black-lunged tart.

I was sitting in a steamy perfumed dungeon in Mayfair yesterday evening, covered in four different types of mud, waiting for a tropical rain shower to start when I had a horrible realization: I am not actually working class!

I see Boris Johnson is traveling by tube everywhere. I suppose that’s better than the last twat who went around everywhere in the chauffeured car whilst explaining to Londoners that the tube runs perfectly and that “cars are not necessary in London.” If Boris reckons he’s a man of the people then he can come and deal with the woman who keeps leaving her poos in crisp packets in Hammersmith station.

I have uploaded a new page of not one, not two, not three, not four, but six new portraits. Click the picture below for the page.

These pictures are drawn in pencil then scanned and coloured on computer. I am thinking of developing them into more purely geometrical images.

I am always looking for more subjects, so if you are interested drop me an email.

Now this is what I am talking about. Content! To hell with the nob gags. I am going to be getting more content on my website now. I have uploaded a photograph of my most recent self-portrait on the portraits page of my website which can be reached by clicking the image preview below. I cannot possibly write any more here. I am still bushed from the weekend festivities surrounding the engagement of my friends Ben and Gill.