‘Ye Gods’

cartoon drawing wet catOkay, you win, I APOLOGISE you pestiferous, pea-brained, gnat-witted, god of Excessive Precipitation.  Clearly I have upset this cloven-hoofed repository of extreme grandiosity by suggesting that the British weather really didn’t do anything terribly exciting, just got damp a lot so that we’re always obliged to carry raincoats.  By way of vengeance, he, she or it has taken it upon themselves to dump somebody else’s monsoon on us so that parts of the country got a month’s worth of rain in twenty four hours.

Now you’d think that, this being an island, the excess would just run off the edge into the sea, leaving us with some nice green fields and a bit less dust, but no; instead it heads for a High Street Near You and fills it up to the gunnels (or the Aga if you’re from the Home Counties), leaving old ladies sitting on their roofs waiting for the fire brigade to turn up in a boat. Most are seemingly taking it as it comes, or at least the ones considered fit to provide a sound bite for reporters, who are also trapped and have little else to do but gather commentary.  Naturally, we don’t hear the interviews that start So how difficult has it been sitting in your Ford Fiesta for fifteen hours with three kids under seven and your Grandad whose marbles are currently absent without official leave?  Presumably the reporter daft enough to go down that route is picking his teeth out of his shirt and consulting his PDA[1] for the whereabouts of a cosmetic surgeon.

Fortunately we’re not on flood alert here although there is a river nearby and there was an occasion when the entire community was trapped in the village by twenty yards of water that had failed to drain away from one of the two roads out of the main residential area.  The fact that many of the residents of that road had moved their cars to the other available road and blocked it seemed to escape everyone’s attention and the council got an ear-bashing for its negligence in clearing the offending drain. That’s democracy for you.

Trevor Baylis, the delightfully dotty inventor of the wind-up radio (by which I mean the radios you wind up to make work, not the ones that wind you up and stop you from working), lives on an island in the middle of the Thames where flooding is clearly a regular thing. Trevor’s got it taped though: his sockets, hand-painted dark green to match the walls but with white plugs and cables attached, are sited at waist height, and there are odd little wooden contraptions that clip across the bottom of the doors.  The piece de resistance is a raised concrete area outside the house upon which chairs and tables have been placed in the manner of a front garden.  It is painted grass green, and neatly demonstrates the distinction between capacity for invention and any sort of design sense. With any luck, Laurence Llewellyn Bowen[2] will be round sharpish to splash on some terracotta masonry paint and construct an emergency lifeboat out of MDF and some tastefully positioned appliqué motifs with a naval theme.

Meanwhile, I will knit water-wings for the cats and fit them each with a dorsal fin with a satnav in it.


[1] Personal Digital Assistant. It’s what we had before iThings.

[2] Remember the BBC’s Changing Rooms with all that flounce and MDF?

From Not Being First Fish by P Spencer-Beck.  Available from Amazon (non-illustrated edition). Second edition (illustrated) due 2018.



drawing of corsetI’m in M&S today and I am bewildered.  When you went to the old Marks and Sparks to replace your underwear – once every three or four years, generally – because it no longer achieved its primary purpose i.e. staying up (knickers) and holding up (bras), it was an uncomplicated business.  You made your way through the serried ranks of safe sweaters, sensible skirts and, at the far end, way out of range of the casual gaze, you circled the two counters displaying under garments.

Bras came in three sizes; small, medium and large, and colours were either white, (thoughtfully pre-greyed for convenience), or subtle shades of Elastoplast. Knicker sizes were much the same but the colours included bottle green, dark brown and navy to accommodate local school uniform demands.  The not-quite one-size-fits-all approach was the domestic application of relativity in that garments fit where they touched and quite often didn’t do that without safety pins, leading to unexpected wrigglings and impromptu vocalisations during fourth period Latin or the church table tennis tournament.

The situation for Larger Ladies was different.  At a separate counter would be displayed corsetry that must have been designed by the military with covert operations and armed combat in mind.  In the familiar shades of Elastoplast and white, these architectural constructions contained bones, hooks and ties to harness and hold in place the nation’s matriarchal adipose lest any should wobble in full view of the Vicar or other local dignitary.  Breathing did not appear to be an option but the capacity to launch anti-tank missiles without flinching was clearly integral to the design.

Thus the purchase of bras and knickers in days of yore took about ten minutes start to finish and off you went to turn out the old ones (washed and sometimes even ironed) for the ‘remnants’ box.  Occasionally these would reappear, to the previous owner’s horror, in the boot of the car as accessories to the dip stick wiping, axel grease smearing and sump emptying rituals performed by the man of the house.

Today, a trip to 21st century M&S requires a level of stamina and decision making capability more common to the political strategist than the unwary punter in search of suitable foundation garments. Bras come in more sizes, shapes, materials and patterns than seems entirely decent – which some of them aren’t – and many are so constructed that they could probably go out on their own and get served in a bar. One line; slinky, slippery and rather gaudy, sports a label saying ‘Touch me!’ which one rather hopes is detachable, or at least comes with an easily activated deterrent should some shifty character try to take advantage.

There’s no respite in the knicker department either; shorts, thongs, strings, high rise, low rise, army khaki, leopard print, lace and something that looks a lot like polystyrene.  And black.  Lots of black.  In the hinterland of fashion circa 1950, there was never black; that was for hussies and had to be purchased in dubious outlets that only men knew of. It was where they went in desperation on Christmas Eve to ‘get something for the wife’ and what they got in return from ‘the wife’ was usually a clip round the ear at the intimation that she might be the sort of woman who would wear that kind of nonsense.

Unattended men were never seen in the underwear department of Messrs Marks and Spencer unless in the company of formidable matrons whose capacity to wither a frisky thought at birth had been practised under their mother’s tutelage.  In fact even a somewhat tottery thought asking vague questions about whether it was tea time yet would have been hard pressed to survive and would most likely have gone home for a sit down with an iced fancy instead.

Not so these days; now there are men everywhere. Some of them are evidently lost, having strayed in from the sandwich section, while others have made it with laser guided precision under cover of stocking up the freezer with whatever Nigella Lawson was pouting over on TV last night. Never has the ordinary male taken so much interest in the preparation of food and never has their associated female gone to such lengths to capitalise on this. ‘If we had some of those cutlets and a few cranberries I could maybe do that thing Nigella did the other night …’ Whoosh. ‘As you’re going anyway, there’s a list on the fridge door … And could you drop the dry cleaning off at the square then pick Amy up from her violin lesson as it’s on your way (kind of)?’ Sneaky but what the heck, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do, right?

From Not Being First Fish by P Spencer-Beck.  Available from Amazon (non-illustrated edition). Second edition (illustrated) due 2018.

An earlier version was published in Boomunderground, as Fundamentally Wrong, 2009.

Not Being First Fish

drawing of fishA wasp drops onto the pond, flails about a bit in an unequal struggle with the surface tension and, GLOMP! A fish snaps it up and disappears.  Then – Splash! Thrash! PWARGH! Wasp floats to the surface, not so lively but still kicking.  Another fish eyes it up.  GLOMP! Then PWARGH!  And back comes the wasp, this time with distinctly critical vital signs.  Fish Number Three approaches, gets a bead on its profile and GLOMP! Fish disappears. I wait.  No regurgitation; this wasp is being recycled. To recycle a wasp, it’s smart to be Third Fish.


Title story from Not Being First Fish by P Spencer-Beck.  Available from Amazon (non-illustrated edition). Second edition (illustrated) due 2018.

Edited 10th September to replace image with new version.


drawing of bus


Yesterday, on the way to the fields and anticipating not just an encounter with Donovan the Lonely Horse but also a soaking due to the gathering gloom above, I came across a double decker bus.  Not too unusual you might think, but in this part of the world we’ve only just stopped pointing at cars and describing them as horseless carriages, so the arrival of a bus is quite an event[1], especially when apparently stranded at the end of a lane it should never have been able to get up and only has steps, a field and a river beyond. Anyway, being incorrigibly nosey and there being a couple of blokes in bus crew gear hanging about, I figure there is most likely a wedding in the offing.  That and it is parked outside the church. And so it turns out: the young bridegroom has been deposited with the vicar, the building is in lock down, and the bus is waiting to transport guests to the post-splicing reception. In reverse, presumably. The reason it’s up there instead of a couple of hundred yards down-wind is, apparently, in deference to the ladies of this entourage who will be wearing shoes with heels and so can not be expected to walk very far.

Well! Does anyone else recall teetering home from the school dance in the snow in party frock and stilettos because all the public transport had stopped? Not to mention those hours of shopping with your mother (because she wouldn’t trust you to come back with something sensible if let loose alone and quite rightly because who wanted sensible?) trailing around in your best kit just in case an eligible boy were to be similarly flying under the maternal flag in search of longer trousers?

‘Kit’ then meant the most excruciatingly constraining underwear within which one’s newly acquired bosom and bum were being compressed to invisibility and from which stockings were suspended with the sole purpose of losing contact at critical moments, such as crossing the road or, in my case, while hopping around trying to haul my heel out of a ventilation grate in an indoor market.  Add to that the further accoutrements associated with the times when one ‘had the painters in’ and any notion of getting a bit of a shift on would be about as feasible as a trip to the moon on the computing power of an iPod. Although to be fair they managed that a couple of years later.

Our lane is a doddle in comparison. Not even any mud.

From Not Being First Fish by P Spencer-Beck.  Available from Amazon (non-illustrated edition). Second edition (illustrated) due 2018.


[1] It still is, at one every two hours and a route plan that looks like one of those puzzles where you have to figure out which kitten is playing with which ball of wool.

The Hills Are Alive …

…with the sound of feline yodelling. In the manner of one’s elderly granny upping sticks in the middle of the night to go shopping, wearing only carpet slippers and a hat she drawing of catbought for a wedding in 1946 and kept because it would ‘come in’, Pickle is beginning to take leave of whatever senses Persians start out with. This has never been much to write home about as anyone living with a Persian will testify. That blank look, reminiscent of an iDog[1] that just drained its battery, is what Persians do between thoughts, and since thoughts are about as frequent as the bus service from Thwing to Wetwang (real places, I kid you not), being globally switched off is a fairly permanent state of affairs.

That is, until senility sets in, then suddenly all cerebral hell breaks loose and we have full scale regression. In Pickle’s case this is a reprise of motherhood and so, at unspecified (and all too frequent) intervals during the night, she calls to non-existent kittens whom she hopes to feed with the bits of paper she’s collected from under the sofa.

And the yodelling? Well, tiny kittens stay home and you deliver their food to them; initially from the on-board milk bar then later in a dish or, if you’re feral, as a take-away, which means plundering the local rodent population and then chomping bits off for them.

As they get older and more mobile, kittens are more likely to be wreaking havoc; up the curtains, say, on top of a cupboard, or down a hole, so parking yourself at base and chuntering reassuringly in the expectation that they will all line up obediently for souris tartar is hardly going to be effective. So this, of course, is why you yell. You yell in the loudest, lowest frequency you can muster because the sound has to travel through walls, soft furnishings and the piles of crockery in the kitchen cupboards with the so-called cat proof locks. Also a gob full of struggling rodent even if that’s a vague feral fantasy. The upshot is that your cat’s vocal output goes from Lily Allen, unplugged, in the middle of a field to Pavarotti with Hawkwind’s sound system parked behind your left ear.

Remonstration results in an interrogative ‘Miaow?’ in the daintiest of tones followed by the hallelujah chorus. It reminds me of her mother who, having offered a polite ‘Meep’ in response to the question about whether she was in season or not, let out a throaty roar once liberated and set off down the lane, hurdling the garden fences, with me in pursuit wielding a fishing net.

Quite what the neighbours made of this is anyone’s guess but I don’t get too many visitors come Halloween.


From Not Being First Fish by P Spencer-Beck.  Available from Amazon (non-illustrated edition). Second edition (illustrated) due 2018.

[1] We used to be amused by these. It was a progression from watching your hard drive being de-fragged.

Chips and Hips

Thought I’d try walking like those women in American crime dramas. You’ve seen them, sweeping down long corridors having important conversations and not looking where they’re going: Hips, Hips, Hips, Hips; like Kate Moss except the dope’s in the evidence bag not back home unconscious on the sofa.  I get as far as Hips #1 and skid on the drawing of catkitchen lino, scattering a number of cats and sending the dogs into a frenzy of territorial barking. That kind of behaviour being, quite obviously, the signature move of the dangerous intruder. It takes half an hour to calm everyone down and one cat is still on the roof. I’m working on walking like the women in EastEnders instead i.e. not much at all and then with arms folded under the bosom in the Les Dawson style. I think you can eat chips with that one.

From Not Being First Fish by P Spencer-Beck.  Available from Amazon (non-illustrated edition). Second edition (illustrated) due 2018.


Full circle

butterfly image

‘Butterfly’. Stencil painting in Rebelle2, rounded and embellished in Paint Shop Pro.

I began my post-school career at art college and it was both beautiful and dismal. Beautiful in that 1960s Brighton was a glittering smog-free jewel next to the tallest most colourful sea I had ever seen; dismal due to my local council in Bradford withdrawing out of county grants for art students and requiring me to return to a place still trapped in the 1950s where towns like Halifax were invisible from the high moors roads due to the thick yellow fog of coal fire pollution. I declined the offer and so ended my education in painting and graphic design and artiness.

Now, after a bit of geographical back and forth and a lengthy detour into science (which turns out to be just as much a creative activity as any branch of the arts), I’m back. Not as an undergrad, you understand – small matter of a portfolio of any sort never mind a competitive one – but learning how to draw all over again, flinging digital paint around in a most spectacular manner via a programme called Rebelle2, and running or making all kinds of images with iPad apps such as Enlight and Procreate, editing and filtering in Paint Shop Pro, and getting lost in apps like ON1Effects, Perfect Effects (from the PSP stable), and Flame Painter (Rebelle software). With the exception of drawing, which is both muckier and harder work than I recall, it’s also cat-compatible so there are no footprints in your paint palette trailing off and onto the sofa. Obstruction remains an issue though – show me a cat that doesn’t like to sit on the keyboard and stare at you.

Some of the results are in the Rebelle2 online gallery hoping one day to make the ‘featured’ section. As there isn’t a search facility, may I point you at this Apple which, if clicked from the Recents tab, will take you to my small collection.

painting of an apple

‘Apple’. Tutorial painting in Rebelle2 using acrylic and water colour wash.








Other items, including some of the drawing class efforts, are on Instagram for which I have finally found a purpose, although my gravy boat is yet to appear due to the crime of being nothing like the actual item. My Dalek pepperpot, though … 🙂

Sounds of Boats on a Windy Beach

boats on the beach








Like huge wind chimes, the rigging on these boats rings and jangles in the slightest breeze. Today was blustery, almost wild for the time of year. So much so that, seconds after this recording, the section of fencing where I had been standing blew over with a crash that stopped everything momentarily – except the chimes.

brighton beach

See the ‘city’ on the horizon?

beach and sea

colours, colours, colours

brighton beach west pier

Bright, undecided sky, and the West pier, still clinging to life.

Paper Crane – an illustrated tweet story

Edinburgh Book Festival will begin soon. The last few years, they’ve run a ‘story-in-a-tweet’ challenge, sending out a prompt early each morning with tweets to be posted before midnight the same day. ‘Paper’ came up in 2015; this is my illustrated version.