It's a rhinole

If you'd like to ruin someone's Christmas, how about finding something to send them from my Etsy store? http://www.etsy.com/shop/SadClownIllustration

I'm not pulling a face, it's just my face

Yesterday for some completely inexplicable reason my girlfriend was sat in bed on her laptop applying for jobs or some such madness. So, because I am a grown-up, I sat there with my book drawing in my book. I got my book last November at Boring 2011, as part of the pack that all attendees received. It was a plain, old school lined exercise book, ostensibly for making notes in. But as it - along with a black ballpoint pen and some badges - was the only thing in the pack that you couldn't eat, I still have it. You probably remember it from late last year and early this year, as I used it to do a lot of the illustrations for my blog posts on the subject of films.

After my girlfriend had finished trying to find herself a new career and a better life or some similar insane nonsense, she picked up my book and had a look through it to see all the pictures I had done. At one stage she turned to this lion and said "oh look, it's doing your face".

Me, yesterday

I did not know what she meant, so I said "what do you mean? I don't know what you mean", or words to that effect. She explained that a lot of my pictures of sentient beings - or of things that I had gifted with sentience for the purposes of a cheap joke about washing machines or robots or tumble dryers - had my facial expressions. "A lot of you comes out in your drawings", she patiently explained.

I am quite excited about this. First of all it is a reminder that I am a sentient being, which I often forget about in the numbing fug of nothing that is my life. But secondly and more importantly, it's something that I have never done on purpose. I am not one of these artists who study their face in the mirror trying to find TRUTH (or PIMPLES). I just go with what looks right on the page. So without knowing it, I am managing to reflect myself back at me with my own arm.

A neat trick. Although not one without its concerning aspects, as you will now observe.

Running the full gamut of emotions from "hmm" to "oh blimey"

Screw you guys, I'm going home

Twelve-inch penises

I'm going to be completely blunt with you all now and I know it is likely to lose me all kinds of followers and readers, but honesty is the basis of all humanity holds dear. Without the truth we would be lost. So here goes. I do not have a 12 inch-long penis.

Now, I am sure that there are some freakishly unlucky people out there who are packing enough meat to be stopped at border posts, but I am not one of them and to be honest I am quite glad of it. The demands I would continually face from entirely fictional women would be far too much just for starters, but I also think I'd have to buy all new trousers.

I can't claim to speak for all women, or indeed any women. This is because I am a man. But I was looking at 12 inches on a tape measure yesterday and it struck me that that is quite a length. I wouldn't want 12 inches of anything, let alone throbbing gristle, inserted in any of my orifices. Moreover, I don't buy into any of this "men are from Mars, women are from Venus" lark, so I reckon the same must be true for the female of the species.

So why has twelve inches become the industry standard for cock? Here are some suggestions.

1. Men are insecure.
2. Men have stuff they need to measure.
3. Men are idiots.
4. Men assume that human vaginas have a depth of a foot.
5. Men feel they'd be more potent if their sperm were delivered right to the opening of the cervix rather than having to swim anywhere.
6. Men are mistakenly of the belief that they could pick stuff up off the floor with it like an elephant's trunk.

Men are pretty stupid, let's face it. Still, if you're reading this and you do have a twelve incher, remember that articles like this one are only written out of jealousy. Even if it's for no other reason than all the free champagne, plane upgrades and broadband offers you get.

The FIFA status of the two-headed Brazilian baby

As you may well be aware, just before Christmas last year in Brazil a mother gave birth to a healthy baby boys, who - fairly unusually it has to be said - has two heads. Of course, these twins are by no means the only conjoined twins in the world, but as they were Brazilian boys and completely medically inseparable as they share a heart, I got to thinking about football.

Milton and Dingus, the only other conjoined twins to play
football for Brazil. They shared a body and one ear.

Brazilians are known worldwide for their footballing ability and there doesn't seem to be any reason that I can see that these twins should be any different. Many conjoined twins are connected in such awkward or ungainly ways as to completely preclude their participation in any form of professionally sanctioned sporting activity, but Jesus and Emmanuel are lucky enough to be pretty straightforwardly joined. As they share one set of organs, the body is a fairly anatomically standard, it just has two heads. There doesn't seem to be any bio-mechanical reason why Jesus or Emmanuel (actually, they'd probably both have to do it, or neither, when I think about it) couldn't become a professional footballer.

However, at the professional level things are a bit more complicated. Why people have to make things complicated, I will never really understand, but they do. You can't just chase a bladder around and score some goals. There is PAPERWORK.

Every professional player is registered and contracted to their club, so that they cannot play for anyone else. You can probably see where I'm going with this.

What constitutes a football player? Is it number of heads? If so, Jesus and Emmanuel are two players. But if it is number of hearts, livers, lungs, kidneys, arms or legs, then they are one. Does it come down to number of surnames? If so the Neville brothers could have counted as one player as long as they could get shorts big enough. Maybe it's kit. One kit means one player.

But Jesus and Emmanuel have two brains, two backbones. If they were to be classified as just one player, this gives them an advantage of one brain over all of their fellow players and in the majority of cases this is a bare minimum figure. Also they'd have an advantage in going up for headers. If Emmanuel missed it, Jesus could sneak in.

The other issue is, if they were - as many Brazilian talents are - snapped up by a top European club, they would be subject to EU Employment Law. If Sampdoria decided that Jesus was the very player for them but Emmanuel's registration was being retained by Montpelier, could the EU Employment Tribunal sue Emmanuel's heart or winky for restraint of trade?

Personally I believe that they should be allowed to play as one player, because they have one body. And this goes for any other sporting or physical activity. Come the day a baby is born with two heads and four arms I might have to question whether or not they should be playing singles or doubles tennis. Likewise, if Jesus and Emmanuel were to become chess grandmasters, I would have to reconsider my position.

Legal issues are not my strong point.

There are four types of monkey

On hair

As every male stand-up comedian will no doubt have informed you, men get hairier as they get older. It's unrelenting, unavoidable and completely without evolutionary justification. Unless one day in the future there comes a time when that one gossamer-thin hair which grows out from the middle of your earlobe's natural use becomes apparent.

It is starting to happen to me and it is a fascinating process. Some hairs I can cope with. I have one or two grey hairs around my temples and another couple on my chin. I don't anticipate that I'll necessarily go grey very quickly, for one thing neither of my parents have and for another I am quite fair-haired. So I approach greying with a serene equanimity.

I wish I could retain such calm for all of my hair woes. However, for as many places as there are on the body where a man can grow a rogue hair (I now believe this to be literally anywhere), there are an equal number of potential psychological reactions.

Allow me to offer an example. I have rather fair haired and thin eyebrows. But old lefty has, for about a decade now, been home to a pair of mad old man epic eyebrow hairs. They grow merrily to twice the length of their fellows and during windy weather poke me in the eye. But they are platinum blond in colour and consequently fairly invisible.

HOWEVER. Yesterday, in the same eyebrow, I noticed a similarly eccentric rogue hair but this one was dark brown. Dark brown! I immediately rended garments and howled at the moon. WHY ME, OH LORD?

I am not the hairiest man. It's something of a tradition in my family, we're not particularly hairy men. I'm probably a little bit hairier than my dad. My younger brother has much less facial hair than me but far better leg hair. He has proper man's leg hair. Fortunately, I do not have any strong desire to see either of these two immediate male relatives in the nip, so I can't speak for their other areas. And everybody carries their own burdens. But I mean honestly, do I really have to have such a hairy back of the neck? It defies belief so it does so it does.

Obviously, many people's curse is another person's dream and I am well aware that lots of people would clamber over hot coals to have as much hair as I do. I mean, I'm not having to shave my eyelids or fend off the amorous advances of Irish Wolf Hounds, I'm just a fairly standard man in their early 30s. With a man's courage.

And increasingly hairy nostrils.

Crayola me

You know, I've recently written on here quite a bit about meeting people in real life who you first "met" online and how it's really no longer anything of a social stigma, or elaborate cover for a massive European paedo ring. This year I've met quite a number of new people via Twitter and they've all been a delight or better.

However, there may still be one problem. And that's the old "how will I know what you look like?". For some people it's easy. Their online lives encompass a lot of photography and video making and all sorts. You're pretty sure to be able to notice them. But then there's people like me. I generally keep pictures of me away from the internet because the servers couldn't take the strain. What we need is a system.

Of course, being a man who has ideas continually because I'm just incredibly clever, I have come up with it. Crayons.

I know of no better range of evocative colour descriptions than the ones in the Crayola crayon range, nor a more readily available array of shades. Yes, from now on everyone should be describing themselves along similar lines. Be as creative as Crayola are, and you never need miss your new Twitter friend or Flickr buddy in a crowded room again.

I would like to start the ball rolling for this brave new world. My hair is Intellectual Blond (thanks for that one go to Alice). Or Super Golden Lion. My skin tone I would describe as being Peach Half Floating In A Chalky Mud Puddle. My eyes are Boiled Sweet Green.

My head is melon. In terms of size, at least.

I defy anyone not to find me after that lot. Another problem for the world solved by the application of pure, crystalline, stupidity. You're welcome.

I like your hair

I have this hair. It's sort of extreme wavy. Moderately curly. Either way, if I don't cut it, it just does what it likes. There's not much you can do. It just sticks out and up and down and around as it sees fit. People seem to like it. I'm growing to like it, too.

As you may also know, I am a big fan of Bob Dylan. You may have already guessed where this is going.

I am aware, yes, that Mr. Dylan and myself have similar hair.

I generally have to keep the fact I'm a Dylan enthusiast quiet unless I have short hair. Otherwise strangers immediately say something like "ah, the hair" or "that explains the hair".

This either means that they believe that, in the womb I concentrated very hard to get the requisite shape of hair follicle to have Dylanesque hair. Or that in adult life I elected to have a perm, in order to look like Bob Dylan.

Maybe I should stop wearing a harmonica rack, and taking Joan Baez, to social functions.

On chicks

Chicks dig scars. This means that were it not for my odious personality, I'd be completely snowed under. My head looks like a dog's had a go at Kryten from Red Dwarf.

Obviously, I've been through the majority of the reasons for this here before. However, I just looked at the date when I was struck with the dazzling realisation that! It's been 5 years to the day since I had the operation to screw my neck back together.

Five years of being bionic, almost to the hour that I'm writing this. They've been exciting times. Actually, they haven't really. But considering the exciting times that led me into that situation that's probably for the best.

It was an exciting operation, mind you. It lasted about 3 or 4 hours, I think. Two neurosurgeons went in through the front of my neck and screwed my spine back together (for those experts amongst you, it was my odontoid process, I had a type 2 fracture of C2). All the while I was being CT scanned, so a live-action 3D model of my head and neck was available to make sure they didn't do anything really daft, like accidentally drive the screw into the bottom of my brain. I blanche to think how expensive this must have all been. All hail Great Britain! A country where, at the moment at least, you can really seriously injure yourself without financial ruin!

The mark of a good surgeon, the saying goes, is that they leave no mark. And so it proved to be. The sum total of the outward physical evidence of what I sincerely hope is the coolest operation I will ever have: a 2½-inch long scar, almost invisible to the naked eye. Perhaps this is why chicks don't dig me so much. Perhaps chicks should carry portable x-ray machines and metal detectors.

The good people responsible were Hurstwood Park Neurosciences Centre in Haywards Heath. A magnificent bunch. Such was their efficiency that, having checked in to the hospital on the 9th and been operated on on the 10th, by teatime on Saturday 12th I was at home again. I can't recommend them highly enough. I would also recommend you do your best to avoid having to use their services in the first place, mind you.

I am cool.

On hairlines

I am pretty lucky in the hair department. Any number of my fellow men would like to have as much hair as I do. It is thick, too. And a colour which I have heard described to me as "intellectual blond".

I have a bald spot on the top of my head, which is caused by scar tissue from where I split my head open five years ago and the incompetent buffoon doctors at the Royal Free Hospital, Hampstead left a piece of gauze in. When I finally removed it, after two weeks of things unsurprisingly enough not healing properly, it was an item which could have been used in public health advertisments to discourage anyone from doing absolutely anything. Needless to say, it was grotesque: saturated with blood, pus and plasma from where my skin had tried to establish a medium to regrow skin.

It's this unsightly dent which makes me very self-conscious about the scourge of men everywhere: male pattern baldness. This isn't vanity about hairlessness, but the shame and embarrassment of a revolting reminder of the stupidest thing I ever did being visible to the world. I am sure I could cope with the former. The latter would probably drive me to go and live in a cave and subsist on a diet of foraged roots and berries.

Baldness isn't actually too much of a concern for me in terms of genetics. For countless generations on either side of my family there are impressively hirsute men, even into their dotage. So, it was the cause of some disquiet when my brother asked me last Friday afternoon if my hairline was receding. In the galling way that these things do, someone put a very similar question to me out of the blue on Saturday evening.

It's a pretty silly question to ask. How should I know? If I am it's at such a glacial level that I shouldn't risk showing the world my cratered head until I'm at least 175-years old. The only solution to this problem is to approach it in the same way parents approach the issue of the growth of their children. The time has come for men everywhere to get the leading edge of their hairline tattooed as a thin black line once a year. This will answer all questions that anyone may have, as long as people remember to carry a ruler with them at all times.

On giraffe costumes

I thought humanity was getting pretty technologically refined, until I Googled "giraffe costume". When you consider the myriad astonishing achievements of the human race, is this pathetic and dismal smorgasbord really the best we can do? (Click for bigger, or search it for yourself if you really want to be depressed)


Don't despair too soon, though, because cometh the hour, cometh the man. I have designed the Best Giraffe Costume, complete with stuffed arse end attachment. This could of course be adapted for pantomime giraffe use. No-one steal my idea. (cfb)

Mirror man: a study in genetic unfairness

I'm better looking in a mirror than I am in real life. Consider for a minute if you will the full implications of that. It is dramatically unfair. I'm trying to think of ways that I can somehow reverse my face, but until then I'm going to have to ask that you all try and reverse the polarity of your eyes by sellotaping magnets to your head at night.

Brace yourselves for the evidence. The top one is as nature (for whatever cruel reason) intended, the bottom is the mirror image. The brown things are a gibbon's legs. (Click for bigger. Plus I promise to shave tomorrow, honest).

My idea advent calendar, day 20

December 20th: Urethrampons

I think someone should make minature tampons for men to stick up their urethra after urination, so as to prevent those unavoidable drips and drops.

My idea advent calendar, day 6

December 6th: Pubic hair consolidation

Evolution has produced many strange things. The proboscis monkey. The duck-billed playpus. The hammerhead shark. However, perhaps its most peculiar trick to date is the fact that human beings still grow pubic hair. The purpose of this, no-one* knows. However, it can be a problem, especially to wearers of bikinis. My wish for the next million years of human evolution is that instead of lots and lots of inch-long curlers, the human pubic hair is consolidated into one, centrally-mounted hair of about 10-20 feet. This would be easier to conceal in thong panties and also could come in very handy for escaping if you are imprisoned in a tower.

* someone might know

Avec crudities

Let's face it, readers, like them or not, penises have played a part in all of our lives at some point. Casting aside the Freud-inspired worship of meaty wangs, it is still easy to understand why it is they represent something which has proved irresistible to the artistic community. On nearly every toilet wall, text book inside cover or biology GCSE paper, you will find images of the phallus. There is something satisfyingly primal about these adornments. And also, amusing. Amusing, that is, if you happen to be a giggly, immature child. Fortunately, I am all of these things, and as such present for your pleasure this post here today.
Early this year, five of this country's most inspirational they-were-once-young minds found themselves in each other's company of a Saturday evening. The location was a pub in Brighton. What happened next has lain dormant in a little sketchbook ever since. The contents are so potent that it's a wonder that the book has not spontaneously ignited since, but it is posterity's gain that it has not. Because what happened next was an artistic symposium of ruinous power. Five people, one pen, one pad, one cock drawing each. The rules were simple... draw a cock. There was another rule as well, actually, and that was that there was to be no premeditative pondering. These cocks had to come from the unconscious mind. Let's have a look at them.

This is cock number one. The artist was a 39-year old male Flash™ programmer. They were born in the West Midlands, an earthy and direct place which obviously had a profound effect on this cock. Look at the pressure of the penmanship and the forcefulness of the lines. This cock is a little bullet not to be messed with. Particularly worthy of note is the urethral opening, drawn with a last flourishing stroke. This is the sort of cock which inspires confidence and respect.


This is cock number two. The artist was a 30-year old female civil servant. Unlike the creator of cock one, this artist grew up in bucolic surroundings in south eastern England, which shows in the ethereal beauty and simplicity of this cock. Particularly of note here is the meatiness of the shaft in relation to its companion knackers. This is not to diminish the importance of the balls to this drawing, the left one being particularly worthy of note... fleshy and bulbous, with three distinct and proud pubes. Topped off with a linear representation of some ejaculation, this classical image of the meat and two veg proves that classical images hold that status for a good reason.

This is cock number three. The artist was a 36-year old male working in debt collection via legal means rather than the traditional car park beatings. This is a very interesting drawing indeed. From the halting lines - compare this to the first two examples' smooth, single-stroke depiction of the willy and hangers - right up to the juiciness of the ejaculate, this is a cock to be reckoned with. Its most notable characteristic, of course, is the detail given to the glans penis. Not for this artist the simple demarcation of a single line. This cock is the sort of medically accurate drawing which would proudly adorn the printed content of a biology text book, rather than its subsequent additions.

This is cock number four. The artist was a 39-year old male computer programmer. Like the previous offering, this cock is characterised by a halting line. But just as cock three, it does not diminish the effectiveness of this musket. The pubic hairs are equidistantly distributed on a taut scrotum, whilst the penis itself is drawn at an angle which leaves the viewer in no doubt as to its tumescence. This cock, too, has an exceptionally detailed glans. Whereas the previous entry would well-illustrate a medical tome, this racier entry would be well suited to a filthy lithograph.

This is cock number five. Its artist was a 28-year old male who, uniquely for this experiment was actually an artist. Perhaps this explains the florid nature of the pubic hair detail and the style-over-substance approach to the shaft. This over-ornate offering does still have much to offer, particularly in the subtle detailing on the glans and urethral opening, and the juiciness of the spunk. However, the over-intricate balls can draw the eye away from the business end a little too much.


CONCLUSION
These five cocks represent a major body of work in the ongoing art of anatomy. Each one has its own unique character and personality, and each one has much to offer the development of the genre. However, it has to be said that cock number 4 is the standout offering. Noteworthy construction, coupled to anatomical accuracy and economy of line makes this wanger a winner. A special mention, however, must go to cock number 2, the classicism of which should inspire all who see it. It is very much my favourite offering.
However, this is not a line drawn in the sand. I welcome all further offerings of cock drawings, either in the comments or by email (link at the top of the sidebar). However, I would request that anyone wishing to submit an art does not do so anonymously, because that would be a bit too weird. Also, anyone emailing photographs of their actual cock will have their details passed on to the authorities.

Genito-urinary medicine clinic

The other day, as I am prone to do, I had a brilliant idea. I was watching some tennis after lunch, but mainly having a little post-prandial nappins because I am getting old. I was awoken by a familiar foe: my own bladder. It was full of urine which I needed to expel.

Having a full bladder is no fun. Things are very tightly packed inside your cavities, so a big melon of a bladder pushes on your other squishy bits and makes you very uncomfortable. Surely humans should have evolved their way out of this problem by now?

So, instead I hitched my cart to the Intelligent Design wagon, in as much as I am very intelligent and have designed a solution. It is simple: put the bladder in the scrotum. Please admire my diagrams (click the picture for a bigger version).
It is probably worth pointing out at this stage that this is only applicable to male genito-urinary medicine. Ladies, I'm afraid you'll have to figure out your own solution. However, with all the additional bits you have rattling round in there, I'm guessing a full bladder is probably the least of your worries.

Anyway, as you can see from Figure 1, the current urinary system is fairly elegant and, most importantly, it works. But does it work smart? The answer is no. Ergonomic design principles have been disregarded, as well as your most tender assets - your cobblers - reduced to hanging exposed where any passing child or slighted woman may kick them. So, to Figure 2. As you can see, I have moved the bladder to the scrotal sac. This will free up vital space in your peritoneal cavity for that extra sausage or a slice of pie. Also, the wrinkled skin of the scrotum will allow the bladder to inflate to a good 3 or 4 litre capacity - rather than its current meek single unit - giving the busy male extra time between wees. NOT TO MENTION the additional bonus of a huge package.

Obviously, this change is not without its difficulties. The testes would have to grow accustomed to the rather darker surroundings of the renal system. Perhaps more troublesome would be man's pesky old enemy, gravity. With the bladder lower than the urethra, evacuation could prove problematic, although a spirited squeeze - akin to that of a bagpipe player - should resolve any really stubborn dregs.

The issue which needs to be most urgently addressed, however, is that I have just noticed that the bladder isn't technically connected to the urethra in any way. There's a chance that Figure 2 won't work. No, it won't. Bugger.

As you were.