Monday, 20 January 2014


MINISTRY OF FUTILE GESTURES, a photo by Narolc on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
My latest collage/drawing using colour gel pens.

Are there any women out there who want me to design their boots?

Friday, 17 January 2014


Using silhouettes as stencils to adorn catalogues of kitchen and other utensils,
Carrie K’Chure pulverises radishes to sprinkle over her goldfish.

She is a Marxist-Taoist advocate of Feng shui, Wing Chun Kung Fu, kaolin poultices and the furtive distribution of extreme feminist pornography.

Above her north-facing windows, she hangs the enlarged autographs she inherited from her eccentric aunt: a matriarchal bagel-obsessive who lived on a double decker bus with her collection of Victoriana and a passive simpleton called Russ.

One of the blown-up autographs was Carl Gustav Jung’s, which she proudly boasted about to her women’s circle at the top of her lungs.

Automatically anti-Freudian, she ridiculed every Freudian precept she had always misunderstood,
Emphasising her contemptuous indignation by hitting a draining-board with a lump of heavy wood.

It was her life’s mission to banish all forms of oppression—commencing immediately after the recession—according to a childhood vision she or her, now deceased, friend might have had.

She was keen to get cracking but with the current economic climate it was just too bad,
So she ran Feng Shui and aromatherapy workshops for feminists with learning difficulties and she hoped they were glad.

Inspired by a picture in a magazine of a gladioli she’d seen, she wrote an epic flowery ode to the flower’s imaginary suitor who, as it turned out, was a Marxist toad.

In her tortuous verses the toad was bullied and subjected to the elaborate curses of frogs who were capitalist lackeys.
Eventually, the toad was killed and, heartbroken, the gladioli wilted as a bird sang: ‘It was what God willed.’

She sent her completed work to every poetry magazine she could with a covering letter explaining her inspiration and making favourable comparisons between herself and every great poet she’d never read.

After countless submissions, an extreme feminist magazine called VULVA GRENADES accepted her piece for publication.

The magazine’s editor, Clitty Fist, bombarded Carrie with e-mails requesting photographs of her breasts for a planned future feature entitled: POETS AND THEIR BREASTS.

One day, thinking why not? Carrie complied, sending a jiffy-bag stuffed full of various breast shots wrapped in heavily-scented, empty Atora packets and an old pair of culottes.

A potential lesbian crush did not faze Carrie much,
If anything she enjoyed the attention and felt—aged forty-eight—reassured that she hadn’t lost her touch.

When the pensioner she was sponsoring to have his own allotment died. Carrie felt peeved at first, but soon she cried, and cried lots more when her women’s circle pried.

Asking her what was wrong; they could see she was upset although her eyes were carefully dried.

‘I’ll be all right,’ she snuffled, sobbing on one of her cohort’s shoulders. ‘I know he was old, but still it’s a shame.’ She said. But she’d completely forgotten his name.

£7 a month it had cost her and he’d only been there twice!

He hadn’t planted any fruit or veg in the allotment before dying—wait, that was it, she suddenly remembered the old boy’s name was Reg.

‘Rest in peace, dear old Reg,’ she blew her red nose in an erotically embroidered hankie.

‘Nothing like a good cry,’ someone said.

Personally, Carrie thought, nothing beats a good spankie.

Her orifices moistened rapidly as her mind filled with familiar fantasies.
Involving whip-wielding fishmongers putting her across their knees and spanking her arse just as hard as they damn well please.

A short animation using a recent collage/drawing of mine. Julian Cloran, 2014.