the idea was to document with drawings your memories of five days - well, the five days after the task was set, basically - so that's what I did. although I was pretty ill for most of them. I contratcted what I can only imagine was some sort of sexually-transmitted influenza (the most savage kind) and I was battered for like three days. so at least my five days began with something semi-interesting.
the first day - I did the most forward thing I've ever done (and will ever do) and hooked up with a complete stranger I met at cabot circus who looked like a lanky steve coogan. in the evening, my flatmates and I went to mother's ruin for the pub quiz and free curry. I had to go home cos I was exhausted (from steve coogan, I presumed) but when I got to the flat I found I was locked out... and fell asleep on the floor.
when I woke up I was totally delirious so I flopped about for a bit before calling katie... but I must have been talkin such shite down the phone they sent jack franklin running to my rescue. I dropped off again and a few minutes later found myself being dragged to my feet and into bed by my knight in cotton-poly armour. what a great guy eh? even sorted me a glass of water. in a plastic glass, I noticed, for health and safety.
I think I got ill cos of karma for bein such a slut.
the second day - still completely fucked by whatever I caught from steve coogan, I had a bangin head and stomach cramps that made me want to die. spent all day staggering about the flat. miranda suggested I get some pepto-bismol for my stomach, which worked for a bit (and pepto-bismol is probably the nicest of all medicine - possible mixer?) but I still didn't wanna eat anything.
later on I wanted some fruit, and as jack franklin was goin down to tesco I asked him to get me some grapes. he didn't even want the money for them. I hope this boy lets me live with him when we leave 112 and get grown up houses. I promise to wash the pots and do all the hoovering. fuck cleanin the bathroom though. swear down 9 out of 10 pubes are not mine.
the third day - I felt a bit better so I invited miranda round and we sat for ages watching depressing porn and smokin da ganja. the porn was so depressing we hat to turn it off after a while cos we noticed all our laughs ended with our hearts bleeding for the argentinian chick getting jizzed on AND insulted by ignorance about her country, or the kids of this chick who cried from gettin pounded in the azz, or whichever awful scenario we found ourselves witnessing.
the fourth day - iain's birthday night out. mickey returned my reeves and mortimer dvd, so natch we couldn't help quoting the stott brothers. this somehow metamorphosed into us both being squeaky geordie bjork, "chuckin stuff off mountain" (in reference to 'hyperballad' obviously) and asking everyone in the most aggressive way possible if they liked "bjaaaark" and we also left an abusive message on some facebook d-bag's ansaphone.
mickey also refused to stop ticklin jack franklin so he punched him in the face.
the last day - iain's actual birthday. even though we were all pretty much hangin to bits, we had a birthday party for him in 112. well, hannah and katie went to the pound shop and bought whatever party tat they could find. also party poppers and a cake shaped like a caterpillar or some shit.
my favourite was when we blew up those phallic balloons you get and raced them out the window, which doesn't sound like much but when you live on the 11th floor and your balloons are soarin free about the skyline of central bristol, it's pretty bitchin. hannah couldn't blow hers up properly.
I should explain why jack franklin is a bear and rich is a weasel. it's cos they both throw quite indistinct silouhettes, so I thought I'd just interpret them as animals. jack franklin kind of looks like a bear if a bear was a human, and rich just has a certain weasely charm. also rich is narrower than jack franklin.
I should also probably say a little about myself, for the uninitiated.
my name is tom gallagher, I am "the same age as my tongue but a bit older than my teeth" and I am in my first year of a BA in illustration at the university of the west of england. I use the full title cos it sounds wicked. I'm not that wildly imaginative, but I make up for it by constantly documenting real life.
my hobbies include taking drugs and selecting which people I would most likely have sex with within closed groups, and then dividing the groups into subgroups such as 'with dark eyes' and 'most awesome' and then deciding from the subgroups and then aggregating everyone's scores so I know which from the group I'd most like to have sex with.
as you can imagine, my work is largely centred around sex and sexuality; intimacy, insecurity, fear, rejection, and all the things that go along with it.
Wednesday, 11 November 2009
I thought I'd get a blog cos everyone else has got one and it makes me feel really out of the loop to not have one. so I got one so I can show off my work to the rest of the illustration cohort and hopefully they'll think mine is rad and get jealous like I do theirs.
Beauty in the Struggle is the title of my personal journal (which sounds pretensh as fuck, but I accidentally came up with a bitchin title while I was comparing the sexual symbolism in two paintings of napoleon, so it's sound). the journal is where I keep all my rambling but often profound, poignant (but mostly lustful) musings on life, art, relationships, all that carry on. it's kind of the messy back room to all my sketchbooks, as 99% of my course work is informed by this scatty little refill pad.
which means I'll most likely be submitting it for assessment. which means whoever's marking it is going to think I'm a huge pain in the arse for writing so much, and a total sex mess freakshop for writing about things like fantasizing about your best friend and how weird it is to have a hot dentist.
...I also learned today that the blog editing tool is actually enough to drive you insane.
As you might have gathered I like exposing more of myself through my journal than I probably should.