Forcing myself to write today. Having one of those dips in productivity that come with a dip in confidence. Wish I had some elaborate psychological explanation for it but it’s all pretty mundane. The blogging isn’t going great. Terrible numbers, even for work like my Farage piece which I thought was pretty strong. Very little income (though thank you to the couple of people who have contributed because you’ve liked my work). And then there’s been a bit of exhaustion due to trouble sleeping. I have a dodgy muscle in my back that always gets triggered if I sit a certain way on the edge of my chair. I try to stop myself sitting like that but it’s easier to say than it is to do. I found myself sitting like that on Sunday and, sure enough, back pain Sunday night and all of Monday. Always worse when I Iie down. Anyway, about 2am this morning, I finally relented and hit it with a couple of Ibuprofen which always does the trick but they also knock me out.

I had a very solid sleep though but woke myself up because I blowing a spray diffuser in my sleep. I’d been having a Ralph Steadman dream in which I was contributing to some art project, except I wasn’t actually me but a certain Twitter-obsessed novelist I follow. I woke myself up with my blowing. Actual physical blowing. Very weird. Slightly disturbing.

Anyway, today I’ve no idea what I’ll do. Yesterday I drew some cartoons which I intend to send off to the usual place which will undoubtedly reject them. They’ll end up here, I guess. Might draw more.

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It’s a cool domain name and it was available. Yes, I know. Available. Crazy, isn’t it?


Yes. It also helps that it’s also my favourite satire written by Alexander Pope, one of the most metrically pure English poets who also knew his way around a crude insult or two. If you’ve not read it, you should give it a try.

So this is satire, right?

Can’t deny it. There will be some. But it’s also an experiment in writing and drawing, giving work away for free in order to see how many people are willing to support a writer doing his thing. It’s the weird stuff that I wouldn’t get published elsewhere in this word of diminishing demands and cookie-cutter tastes.