Blackboard Jungle

In these modern, enlightened times in which we live, it seems common place for people to attempt to add gravitas to their musings or lamentations through the butchering of quotes from supposedly inspirational people. Let me be clear by saying that the majority of those people are devoid of anything resembling sense, intelligence or original thought. They are using the ideas of others as a parasite may use a host. Now that's out of the way, I would like to quote a person who played a profoundly important role in shaping me into the person I am today:

"Hold onto your butts."

Ray Arnold (Jurassic Park)

Things are about to get a bit experimental in tonight's episode of "What The Fuck Am I Reading!?", as I employ the use of visual aids. Use of these visual aids are a somewhat inevitable progression from my recent use of pictures which we shall term as "visual HIV". Thus, there shall be a decreased emphasis on words and coherency, It begins....

I've been giving some consideration to the way in which I am viewed by others. In the last few weeks, as a sample time span, I've been introduced to many new people. Reactions upon making my acquaintance have fallen into simple categories.

In Dublin
Their reaction: "Oh I've heard about Deebs. We all have."
My reaction: Instant terror
What they see/hear: "Oh fuck!" -insert foolish behaviour-

In Edinburgh

Their reaction: "Oh you're Irish? Are you from the north or south?."

My reaction: "They're going to make naive assumptions about my being Irish, aren't they?"

What they see/hear: "Potato. Potato. Potato. Leprechaun. Potato."

One unified characteristic across the board, however, has been in the comparisons drawn between your beloved blog writer and a whiny musician with a penchant for crap lyrics and curious naming practices. And so, in that regard, I would like to set things straight.

I was moseying down the street on my way back to the flat a couple of weeks ago, minding my own business and generally being the innocent sage that I am, when a young lady stopped me to ask for directions. Being the gentleman I am, I advised as best I could.

"Has anyone ever told you that you look like Chris Martin?"

She did not reach her destination. She is deceased.

I do not look like Chris Martin.

Now that I've got that out of the way, it's time for the picture round. You see, while all the other kids in Edinburgh were out drinking, debauching and desecrating the idea of being Irish in the name of Paddy's Day this past Saturday, I was enjoying an altogether different type of evening in our flat. Seeing as I couldn't engage in the profane abuse of my liver, owing to the impending onset of my shift at work (oh yeah, I work in a bar now), one flatmate was too broke to see the world beyond our door, and the other had just arrived back with beer and his girlfriend in tow, we got to thinking. Our thoughts led to us making use of The Board of Truth which hangs in our kitchen. We set to drawing each other like many of our French girls. I present:

Portraits of Deebs

First up, we have Dave's interesting perspective of a gigantic, half-sasquatch who may be more beard than man.

Next we see the continuation of an original Barton series entitled "Sad Deebs in a Top Hat". The obscenely accurate speech bubble dwarfing the character proving to be a touch of undeniable genius.

And so we arrived at the inscrutable work of Phil. Many minutes were spent trying to decipher the chaotic, abstract works of Mr Kelly, before we just settled on it being beyond mortal comprehension.

Finally comes the self-portrait which I just etched a few minutes ago.

Interestingly, there does seem to be a story when all these images are laid out in chronological order, as above. A tale of how I progressed from unkempt vagabond, to discovering a fondness for hats and self deprecation before my mind exploded and I became Jack the Ripper*.

(*citation needed)

Enjoy waking up to that one, boys. I'll see you in your nightmares.