Previously on GUINEA KING: Tropical Pete’s financial difficulties have been resolved, but Sheryl Flaskin’s murderer is still at large.
Disclaimer: All characters are entirely fictional.
Previously on GUINEA KING: Peggy Sue has taken control of Guinea Kingdom (a guinea pig zoo), and the police are investigating the murder of Sheryl Flaskin.
Trapped by debt, Tropical Pete has reached rock bottom.
Disclaimer: All characters are entirely fictional.
Previously on GUNIEA KING: After losing control of his zoo, Tropical Pete is staying with Dick Mantel. New evidence suggesting the work of a serial killer makes him an unlikely suspect in the hunt for Sheryl Flaskin’s murderer.
Disclaimer: All characters are entirely fictional.
Previously on GUINEA KING: Sarge and Detective are investigating the murder of Sheryl Flaskin. After going for a roller skate in the woodlands, her head was found blown to pieces.
Disclaimer: All characters are entirely fictional.
Previously on GUINEA KING: Tropical Pete is having a tough run of luck. First he landed himself a nine billion pound fine, then his favourite guinea pig stole his zoo, and now he’s the chief suspect in a murder enquiry.
Disclaimer: All characters are entirely fictional.
Previously on GUINEA KING: After finding Sheryl Flaskin’s bullet punctured corpse in the woods, Sarge and Detective went to speak with her pet husband Gerald.
Disclaimer: All characters are entirely fictional.
Previously on GUINEA KING: After successfully suing Tropical Pete for nine billion pounds, Sheryl Flaskin was out roller skating in the woods when a mysterious assailant murdered her through the head.
To be continued….
Disclaimer: All characters are entirely fictional.
Previously on GUINEA KING: After successfully suing Tropical Pete for insulting her online, Sheryl Flaskin is owed nine billion pounds.
Unable to pay, Tropical Pete transferred the ownership of his zoo to his favourite guinea pig, Peggy Sue. With the zoo in her name, bailiffs cannot take it away to cover Tropical Pete’s debts.
However, the guinea pig betrayed Pete’s trust. As soon as the transfer of ownership was complete, Peggy Sue kicked him off of the premises.
Sheryl Flaskin remains blissfully unaware of these developments…….
Disclaimer: All characters are entirely fictional.
Previously on GUNIEA KING: After being sued by Sheryl Flaskin and her husband Gerald, Tropical has been ordered to pay nine billion pounds, plus legal fees. He has just 24 hours to raise the funds and make the payment.
Disclaimer: All characters are entirely fictional.
Previously on GUINEA KING: A guinea pig breeder named Tropical Pete is defending himself in court after insulting Sheryl Flaskin on Facebook.
He faces a potential fine of nine billion pounds.
Sheryl is the co-founder of Big Pig Rescue. She is trying to close down Tropical Pete’s guinea pig zoo because his cages do not meet her regulatory standards.
Disclaimer: All characters are entirely fictional.
Previously on GUINEA KING: Yesterday a guinea pig breeder named Tropical Pete received a letter from Sheryl Flaskin at Big Pig Rescue.
The letter informed him that his cages are not compliant with Sheryl’s regulations, which require 200 acres of space per cavy. This angered him.
Disclaimer: All characters are entirely fictional.
Disclaimer: All characters are entirely fictional.
I remember the anxious anticipation I used to feel immediately before an exam. Waiting to turn my paper. Desperate to start. Even more desperate to finish.
I remember the collective anticipation of millions of pupils staring at the clock, and the atmosphere of the hall in those final seconds of buildup. I remember the panicked sense of doubt as I picked apart my preparations in my head, and I remember hoping for the best.
The way I’m feeling now ain’t too dissimilar. Exam nerves max. The dial on 11.
Waiting For The Peak
It’s a strange feeling
Waiting for the peak
We don’t know when it’s coming
And we do not know how steep
The curve will climb tomorrow
In response to previous weeks
The weeks we passed together
The weeks that did not think
Of weeks when something dormant
Would wake up from its sleep
It’s hard to think about anything other than corona virus. Its presence is felt in every aspect of daily life and our favourite distractions have been suspended.
Modern life hasn't been good for the imagination. We’ve outsourced the production of mental stimulus and pay for it by monthly subscription. We haven’t needed to entertain ourselves for a long time. Now we’re being forced to.
No sport this weekend, no gigs, and no nights out. Bored of Netflix. Sick of screens.
There’s nowhere to go except for the space inside our heads. Who remembers how to get there?
When I draw for pleasure, I just start drawing and see what happens. I don’t approach the page with any set direction.
Every mark I make is a response to whatever mark proceeded it. I defer decision making to my subconscious and carry on until the image reaches a natural conclusion.
Themes emerge, and I follow them, but I don’t start with a destination in mind.
The fun comes from not knowing where I’m going to end up; from sitting back and enjoying the journey.
If a drawing requires development and planning, that’s when I consider it work.
There's a game called squiggles. One player scribbles something on a piece of paper, then gives it to the next player who tries to transform the lines into a recognisable picture. I basically play that game on my own, and have done for years. I’m quite good at it.
Surrealist painters like Dali used to develop images in a similar way. As did a lot of underground cartoonists in the 1960’s. It’s how I developed the short comic strip above.
I made it up as I went along, then coloured it in afterwards.
Today’s example is fairly accessible, but sometimes the results are far stranger.
My girlfriend and I are rapidly becoming crazy guinea pig people. The lockdown seems to be accelerating our descent.
When we first got the boys, they lived in a 150x60cm cage.
Today we extended their dwelling for the fifth time in eight months. At 213x138cm, their home is now larger than a double bed.
The other night we talked about taking Pappa, Blake, and Toothless for a professional photoshoot.
There’s a style of photograph that’s popular with suburban parents. Portraits of their children/grandchildren set against a plain white background and printed on canvas. That’s what we wanted for our piglets.
The next morning I had a brilliant idea.
I was sitting in it when I realised that our bath tub provided the perfect setting for artistic photoshoots with our fur-children.
The handsome lad at the top of this post is Toothless. He’s the most submissive guinea in our herd. We put him in the bath this morning and fed him small pieces of carrot to keep him calm whilst we took his photograph.
Well done Toothless, you’ve made mummy and daddy very proud!
I like to make up characters and then produce the style of work I imagine them making. It’s something I started doing when I was at school.
Me and some mates invented an imaginary bloke called Finley Von Finley when we were about 14 years old. He had a pet whale, and no human friends. First we wrote songs about him, then we started writing songs from his perspective.
The idea developed into an avant-garde pop group called The Von Finleys. We performed in-front of our English class.
We were pretty weird kids.
I’ve since read that Robert Pollard employs similar techniques with Guided By Voices.
It’s a fun thing do.
Here’s a short story by Phillip K. Dick-King Stephenson, a surrealist horror writer who doesn’t exist:
The Burning Hole
by Phillip K. Dick-King Stephenson
She awoke to a burning hole.
The sun seared through the ceiling like a soldering iron through flesh.
Nanny Pastel rubbed her eyes and put on her glasses. She heaved her head from the pillow. The weight of varifocal lenses added to her daily struggle.
After manoeuvring her plastic joints into a seated position, she perched for a while at the end of her bed. “Wake up, Harold! You need to fix the ceiling!”.
Harold turned in his grave.
She fell down the stairs and into the kitchen. The kettle boiled her breakfast.
“What’s the secret to eternal life, Nanny Pastel?” said Nanny Pastel to Nanny Pastel.
“12 eggs every morning”, replied Harold ominously.
Nanny turned in surprise and smiled at her late husband. An ambulance arrived five minutes later.
The End
I’ve started watching Tiger King: Murder, Mayhem and Madness. It’s a documentary series on Netflix about private zoo owners in America who specialise in big cats. Lion hugging loons.
The people involved shouldn’t exist outside of fiction. Inexplicably they do, and it’s absolute chaos.
The star of the show is a bloke called Joe Exotic. He’s a cult-leaderish zoo owner with two husbands, loads of guns, and a massive ego. Angry, but incredibly charismatic.
Interesting looking as well. I couldn’t resist drawing him.
If it wasn’t for the awful ending, I’d be re-watching Game of Thrones during lockdown. I just can’t bring myself to re-invest in characters that I know will let me down.
A reluctant true-king who rose from the dead to fulfil his divine destiny, but doesn’t.
A loyal companion in possession of proof that proves to be be absolutely meaningless.
An omniscient buddha who’s journey veers suddenly left when he appoints himself prime-minister.
An ominous force of evil that turns out to be an entirely one dimensional baddy who only kills extras.
A vengeful assassin with mystic powers who abruptly discards her to-do list in favour of a gap year.
The last three episodes of that programme were devastating. One of the greatest works of television concludes in the collective anti-climax of every main character.
I’ve still not got over the disappointment.
Our state mandated walk coincided with nationwide applause last night. An act of appreciation for NHS workers.
I love clapping. It’s excellent. I used do this stand-up comedy routine where I told the audience to just clap for no reason. Then I’d tell them to laugh, and they would laugh because they’d got themselves all hyped up just from clapping. No jokes were necessary.
There was a reason to clap yesterday.
Our NHS workers deserved that ovation. They deserve one every night.
As we approached our flat, one clap rang out louder than the others. In a doorway surrounded by handrails was an old lady in a dressing gown. I’d guess she was in her nineties. Not just clapping; dancing, and cheering, and chanting as well. “GOD BLESS THE NHS! GOD BLESS THE NHS! GOD BLESS THE NHS!”
It was moving. My eyes welled up.
God bless the NHS and God bless its workforce. Let them never be taken for granted again.
