Rude Cartoons!

The following cartoons illustrate a FILTHY comic poem I used to perform (with the cartoons on a flipchart) around the Clubs in London.

Can you work out the story by looking at the cartoons?

Anyone who’s curious to see the original MIND-NUMBINGLY DEPRAVED and disgusting poem, just PM me and I’ll point you in the right direction!


What are you going to do when you grow up?

Half a century later and I am still undecided. I’ve managed to hack out a living from cartoons and caricatures, all the while being in love with writing, humour, TV and films. If I could equal the living I’m making simply by tapping a keyboard and eventually seeing the contents of my fevered imagination spilled all over a TV or cinema screen, I would do it like a shot. Maybe it’s not too late for me to burst upon the advertising scene, or maybe I could become a quirky TV presenter. I could launch my own line of pink fashion flares or a range of pasta sauces with my beaming face on the labels. With my imagination I could come up with ‘a new type of bank account’ – one which pays no interest whatsoever. Or perhaps I could simply come up with A Totally New Concept and sell it without saying what the concept is. I could become a Life Coach and teach people how to breathe in and then breathe out. “That’ll keep you alive.” The Wealth Creation Industry appeals to me. Their huge factories in the Welsh valleys spewing out smoke from wealth creating mills from which lorries drive out carrying piles of newly made wealth to sell to eager customers all over the world. And of course, it’ll all be because I want to help people. I want to help people to help me. I’ll publish self-help books in which I propound that in order to help yourself you just have to help yourself. And these, of course, will spawn websites and social networks devoted to my teachings. I will teach Gurus how to be Gurus and there will be many levels of networker whom I will teach to be totally altruistic in their desire to pay me their subscriptions.

Maybe I should go into satire. Though it’s not as funny as slapstick.

Do YOU know what you want to be when you grow up?

Short Poem

Short Poem
Napoleon Bonaparte, Queen Victoria,
Ronnie Corbett, Frankie Dettori,
Mohamed Al Fayed, Carla from Cheers,
Angus Deayton, Ben Elton,
Michael J Fox, Red Skelton
Red Buttons, Dustin Hoffman,
And in built-up shoes,
Tom Cruise.
Lester Piggott, Mickey Rooney,
Ian Hislop, Rosemary Clooney
Lulu, Robin Cook, Dudley Moore,
Jimmy Clitheroe, Danny DeVito,
Lou Costello, Robert DeNiro
Al Pacino, Quentin Tarantino,
And in built-up shoes,
Tom Cruise.

Tom Cruise

Burger King Innuendo – Cartoon Poem

Burger King Innuendo – The Aubergine Version

I was tired,
I was starving
I came upon a Burger King

Burger King

I was served
quite ungaily
by the undelightful Hayley.

Burger King Hayley

Her pale face
strangely had all
the charm of a whitewashed wall.
She was up
to her armpits
in french fries and greasy bits.
Her trousers
were far from clean,
being the colour of an aubergine.

Burger King 3

‘A Veggie
Whopper meal, please.
And could you leave out the cheese?’
‘Would you like
to go large on that?’
she said in a voice dull and flat.

Burger King 4

I thought of
my burger in her buns,
remembering what they say about the quiet ones.
I’m married,
happy with my station.

I had to ignore this blatant flirtation.

Burger King 5

I ate my meal,
not another word spoken
and left Hayley – probably heartbroken.


Toilets. Love them or loathe them, you’d be a fool not to know where they are in a city as big as London.

With the sad decline of the wonderfully euphemistic ‘Public Convenience‘ the world weary and fluid-full traveller can often find himself in tricky and, let’s face it, sometimes trickly situations.

Councils have been thoughtful in planting those pre-fab fibre glass monstrosities with coin-operated doors in far flung corners of our boroughs. They rarely work, the so-called cleaning process between uses never does and they seem to be a contender for the Most Ill-Thought-Out Design Award of the Century. Perhaps Dr Who will adopt one if he can sort out the problem he has with his Tardis being locked into its antiquated appearance as a police call box.

The few remaining Victorian lavvies are now so much centres of drug abuse that the old tradition of gay bumfoolery in the cubicles now seems as quaint and nostalgic as an Ealing comedy.

When I am in London and in desperate need, I always prefer sophistication whether standing or sitting down. Virtually anywhere in the centre you will find a five star hotel which will cater for your aspirations to finer living. The Mayfair Hotel in Stratton Street, near Green Park, boasts cavernous cubicles where you could comfortably bed down for the night. The Grosvenor House Hotel in Park Lane is ludicrously convenient as its toilets are first on the left after you go through the main entrance, nodding confidently at the suspicious doorman. The Waldorf, in Aldwych is similarly accessible, with no huge Reception desk to walk past trying to ignore the quizzical stares of the concierges. There is probably a guide book in this. And here I am, giving the idea away. It will be published tomorrow by a rival to the sound of my grinding teeth and tearing clothes.

Sometimes, though, desperation and distance from any refined porcelain forces one to look for alternatives.

Pubs are an obvious choice, although the quality is traumatically variable, with the unlockable doors and loose seat being a regular feature. And of course, you have to walk through the bar acting as though you are looking for someone. Strangely enough, only the other week, I discovered that the Assembly Rooms in Kentish Town is part of a ‘Community Toilet Scheme’ which allows any non-customer to go in and use their toilets. This is a brilliant idea which I think all towns should encourage their hostelries to adopt.

Cafés are a little more difficult as they are smaller and seem to demand that you buy something before or after using their facilities. What is amazing, though, is the number of cafés which purport to not having toilets. They shove all that tea, coffee and lasagne down unsuspecting customers and then eject them into a toilet-less void. That’s simply pure sadism. And besides, I don’t believe them. OF COURSE they have a toilet, unless of course the owners are all physically connected to the sewers by a system of tubes which I highly doubt, although my research in this area is not complete.

The best route to take if you HAVE to use a café is to target the big chains like Starbucks. They’re busy, the staff won’t notice and they usually have big cubicles which double as a baby changing area. I could spend all day in one of those, playing with the equipment. And if the worse comes to the worse, you can always force yourself to use a McDonalds. In fact I’ve often been grateful to McDonalds for installing their toilets all over the country.

Weary late night tube travellers like myself are often perplexed by the lack of lavatories on platforms. Of course, there is plenty of evidence that this does not put some people off simply using the platform, but for those of us with refined sensibilities, a little privacy, decorum and consideration for others is of paramount importance. There are some woods across the road from Totteridge Station which provides all these. If you go far enough down one end of the car park in East Finchley you are normally out of range of both eyesight and opprobrium.

So, if you are travelling around London, print out this handy guide to ensure your trip is successful and anxiety-free. The paper might come in handy, too.

Slapstick and Tickle

Writing has always been equal a passion as drawing and I have written many short stories, poems, scripts, lyrics and various comical essays.

The advantage of being a cartoonist as well, is that you can combine the two to great effect.

Here’s a short story which was published in More Tonto Short Stories last year.

Slapstick and Tickle

Slapstick and Tickle

We met at The Accident Prone Society Annual Dinner and Dance. Always a messy affair. I’ve been going for three years now and it always seems to consist of a group of awkward people dancing in their dinner. I can never work out why the organisers book the same ballroom, up three flights of stairs. Either they have a strange sense of humour or they get a commission from medical supplies companies. At this event ‘tripping the light fantastic’ had another meaning.

Mary caught my eye immediately. Fortunately, I had some Optrex on me. I asked her to dance. It started off okay but then a chair decided to join us swiftly followed by a curtain and curtain rail. I can’t remember how we ended up in the caretaker’s supply room but Mary looked fetching with a bucket on her head while I found the mop handle down my trousers a little uncomfortable.
“Would you like to come in for coffee?” she asked as the car’s airbags deflated.

I was thrilled. “I’d love to.” This was my first proper date for ages. The last time, the sudden interruption by the sprinkler system had dampened my ardour.

Picking our way through the debris, Mary showed me down to her basement flat. “I really ought to get that loose railing fixed,” she said as we examined our cuts and bruises at the bottom of the steps.

“Never mind,” I said. “I always carry Savlon and Elastoplast.”

“So do I!” she gasped. “We’re so alike!”

I settled down on the settee while Mary scalded herself in the kitchen.

“Could you use any help?” I called through.

“Well, yes. The biscuits are on a shelf out of my reach. Could you get them for me?”

Like a knight to the rescue of a fair damsel, I tripped over the runner and somersaulted through the louvre doors into the kitchen. One of the doors swung back and clouted me on the head. “Oh dear,” said Mary. “Sorry.”

“Not your fault, Mary,” I said manfully. “Now, where are these biscuits?”

“They’re on the top shelf, there, above the sink.”

The kitchen was tiny so I had to proceed with great care, stepping up onto a three-legged stool right behind Mary who was engaged in a titanic struggle with kettle, teapot and boiling water.

I could steady myself with my fingertips on the edge of the shelf while leaning my right knee against the kitchen sink.

“My goodness, what a lovely mosaic,” I said, catching sight of the bit of wall above the sink. “Did you do it yourself?”

“Yes,” said Mary. “But it wasn’t meant to be a mosaic. It was my first attempt at tiling.”

As I stretched up towards the biscuits, the first thing to go was the stool. My left foot swung backwards, burying my left foot in Mary’s groin. She gasped and bent forward, jamming the teapot spout down the back of my belt, pouring its boiling contents down my trousers. With Mary clinging onto both legs, the shelf was going to collapse in any second and I didn’t want to fall on top of her, so I levered my right knee into the sink and managed to direct the shelf full of biscuits, tinned fruit and strawberry jam behind my head, hoping that most of it would miss Mary, as I propelled my body through the tiny window. I only got half way through. Thankfully it was not double glazed and broke quite easily. My legs were stuck in a sink full of washing up and my upper body and arms were dangling out into the tiny space between the neighbouring buildings. The taps found parts of my body I never knew I had. A battered and sticky Mary was draped over my backside with her hand down my trousers trying to extract the teapot. This would have been just the right moment for the vicar to call but fortunately this was real life, not a farce.

“Well, I didn’t really feel like biscuits anyway,” said Mary as she applied the thirty-ninth plaster to my face. We now almost matched eachother with the range of surgical dressings on our faces and bodies.

We had managed to make a safe retreat to the living room and had settled for glasses of cold water instead of tea or coffee.

“Best to be on the safe side,” I said.

“That’s what I always say,” she said. “We’re so alike!”

Mary had a lit a couple of candles and placed them on the coffee table for atmosphere. I reckoned I was in with a chance.

All of a sudden, she pushed me backwards on the sofa and pressed her body against mine. My head was hanging off the end near the coffee table.

“I’ve heard them talk about you down at the Society,” she purred, pushing her face closer to mine. “Apparently you’re really hot stuff.”

“Well, you know,” I blushed. “You might find yourself playing with fire.”

“I think you might be right,” she squealed as I pulled her closer. “Your hair’s burning!”

There’s always something, isn’t there? I thought morosely as I ran to the toilet and doused my flaming head in the bowl. The toilet seat came crashing down and I accidentally flushed the cistern.

“Thank you,” called Mary. “I forgot to flush it the last time I went.”

We decided to call it a night. “I’ll call you,” I told her as I staggered up the steps.

As I walked home, I wondered what the lads back at work would make of it. We were always swapping our stories of romantic conquests. Anything to make life a little less boring at Sizewell B’s Department of Health and Safety.

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