England had a chuckling reverse so they said, and I knew it was true and I knew it would grow as a hush-hush bomb in ugly men’s minds until their skulls went absolutely fucking pop. It would serve them right, really really reverse right. But the Prime Minster’s nightmare had yet to happen, until it did, very loudly in the middle of the night.
The shit haired blobby fellow, he came there to where you’re reading this oh yes, and there was puke pouring out of him, out of every skin pore rather than mouth, and I said “Oh well a new development is a new development”. He said he was in a mixed martial arts match with "The Chuntering Pixel" from Preston, he wouldn't shut up about it, he was ready to throw a punch at his own pukey face, his own pukey pukey face with my name written on his hands.
He started messaging me, just talking about how difficult he thought his situation was, the whole puke thing you know, and he could see three suns and he was just trying to go over and over it in his mind - have a chat, have a talk to the arrogance of doctors. He died on one level and remained alive on another and then even on that level he was replaced. Polly Toynbee laid down another tile and had many words to say about things in general collapsing. I once wrote a letter about that to the Radio Times and they printed it with a sarcastic headline - "Kubrick's Rube".
So he left, and I just said to myself you have to understand we are not going to get anywhere on this topic at this rate, so let’s make it an inch of puke per day, just a little drop practically, a wee titty little dottage, an ugly dumb smudge of blah. And that's when the still life came about.
I got the gang together and they started to drink and yell and chant as I drew. I was really pushing myself to draw comprehensively different still lifes (lives?) and concepts of stillness than previous decades before. Frozen images are always on my mind. If you can make something into a pond in winter, I can think it, and I can draw it. And so the gang cheered me on as I worked.
We were just about to finish, we were really close to making it all the way, and then Mr. Beals comes up through the trapdoor and says, "Are you aware of this great Canadian painter J.W. Aungier?" And I said “Oh no”. And he said “Yes, yes, yes.” And I said "I guess you mean Johnny Weekend Aungier?" And he said that he was at one point, and so was Mr Aungier, but then he got tired of himself and lost his body, and floated away, and now the government couldn't find him.
So he kind of looked haunted by the memory of this great artist, who was actually a kind of crazy cartoon dog. J.W. was the felt-tipped mascot who, every time you went to the museum or the school library, they'd have him over in the corner sitting sadly next to the puzzle boards and the dirty bags and the pictures of fictional men with fictional hats and nobody knew what to do with him.
Once I went to a museum and it just had two rooms. A shouting room, and a Wooden Chinese figurine room.
Inside a box on the patio outside there were a couple of plastic ones too, sitting all dated in a glass case. There was a rooster that had a whole different personality every time you put a cigar in its mouth. Then there was the Imperial Mouse and some very detailed armour. I never took that stuff seriously, and actually, I didn't believe in earth or sky either.
I thought the whole world was flat, which was a source of endless irritation and sadness to me. I was very uptight. I thought to myself, why am I so stupid? The world is round! Yet there was a butterfly in my brain that insisted. And he was a good friend to me, so I didn't like to belabour the point. But I'm glad he's gone, and that I don’t have to pretend, even though now I miss his stupid voice, and wept when he got stepped on.