I'm On A Bus

Here are 13 rough pages of text for the book I'm currently working on about buses. To make the text I looked through old newspapers and when I saw a word I needed I cut it out and stuck it down, it's a very time consuming process but one I feel suits the content well. Given that many commuters and bus passengers read daily newspapers such as the METRO, I feel this is keeping of the everydayness and banality of bus journeys.

Meal For One

I've bought a pretty cheap ready meal from Heron Foods. I'm really looking forward to it because you seem to get a lot in it, you even get a free naan! On the back it says, "Joe hates to be hungry. His spicy chicken tikka balti is packed full of flavour & is sure to feed your hunger." As you'll agree this Joe fella is promising a lot, and that's exactly what I'm expecting after tucking into 'hungry Joe's Chicken Tikka Balti with Rice & Naan', a lot. To illustrate who Joe is and to prove that these people aren't fooling with you, you actually get to see Joe. Unlike Mr. Kipling, I've never seen his face. But we can see Joe on the back, with an apron with "Joe" written on it to show who he is, a man with an apron on that says "Joe" on it so we know he's Joe. He's also cooking a meal which doesn't look like the frozen one I've taken out of the packet. But as I said, I'm really looking forward to this and expected a lot from it so we won't hold that against him. Joe's never let me down and judging by his very tired face he looks as if he's made it a point in life not to let anybody else down either.

For The Love Of Oreos

The thing I like about Oreos is that they're black, well almost, black enough to satisfy me anyway. When I was a child for some unknown reason I was obsessed with the colour black, when given a picture to colour in I coloured it black. What this means psychologically I don't know, and I don't actually care. But I really like Oreos, yes they may taste like dirt and be expensive should you buy them from a place that doesn't sell cheap biscuits. But I like Oreos because when I was a child I really wanted there to be a black biscuit, darker than a Bourbon in colour because that just didn't cut it for me. However, Oreos fulfil my childhood need for a black biscuit and for that I am very happy. I'm Adam Lee Jones and that was my story.

Don't Be A Tit.

In regards to the woman who had a breast enlargement operation on the NHS: For the people who moan and winge about how their taxes paid for the operation, that a little girl was denied cancer treatment because of it (which is of course bollocks, and the fact that the Sun ran both articles side-by-side is proof of how low and callous the paper is; cancer treatment is also a hell of a lot more expensive than a breast operation, and after all the NHS is there to be used by the public as it is public-funded), who think that this woman is nothing short of the second coming of Hitler and barrage her with abuse because she used a service which was there to be used, and insulting her appearance with jibes such as "slut", "tramp", "she should have sorted her nose out", "she looks like she's been hit by a tram", "I hope her breasts explode" and "Go die". In all honesty she hasn't done anything wrong, far from it.

The thing at fault is not the government (this time), the woman who had the operation or the doctor who allowed it. The thing at fault is the culture that bred the thinking that if you have small breasts there is something wrong with you and nobody will love you, and that large breasts are something to aspire to. It's rich of the Sun newspaper to run a story like this when it's they who are the ones who have an institution such as Page 3 and contribute to this ramshackled clown shoe way of thinking. If you have small breasts you're not less of a person, you're not going to be undervalued by society, you are perfectly normal and beautiful, people come in all shapes and sizes and this is to be embraced by society, our differences are what make us who we are. Whatever the size of your breasts or however you look there isn't anything wrong with you and if somebody or something tells you there is then that is the thing at fault.

This "LAD" culture and the sexploitation of women is really fucking ridiculous, the fact that a woman feels insecure about her breast size because of it is horrible and wrong. If you buy into this culture, aspire to be a "glamour model", buy the Sun, support the degradation and exploitation of women you are part of this machine. What I'm saying is you should question things a whole lot more, look closer at the facts and harder at the evidence, educate yourselves and change your way of thinking. Love yourselves and be proud of who you are.

The Search for Eggy Wallop (Days One to Five)

Day One

After a hearty breakfast of liver and onions it was full steam ahead as I marched towards the City Library wearing my cagoule and shorts combo. I had to wait outside for half an hour as I arrived there earlier than expected. I have long legs and the footstep ratio is 3:1 of an average sized human man and me; and 7:1 of a small human child and me.

A tall, skinny gentlemen opened up the library and showed me to the archives. He was the librarian, and if ever there was a competition for the World's Sexiest Librarian he would surely win.

The archives proved useful, it turns out Eggy Wallop was born Eggy Wallop on 26th December 1987. His father was a sailor in the Merchant Navy and his mother was a hairdresser and housewife. He was raised in a ramshackled barn house and always wanted more out of life. He was always searching for something, but what that something was wouldn't be made clear until 21st July 2012.

His father's name was Edward Jethro Dennis Wallop and his mother's name was Cassandra Fiona Bocelli Wallop (nee Costello). It seemed like humble beginnings for Eggy Wallop, but it wasn't until his first Christmas that things began to turn very strange indeed...

Day Two

25th December 1988, it began like any normal Christmas. Waking up to open presents and his parents being just as excited as him, but when they all went down stairs there were no presents. In fact, there wasn't anything, just a note that said "It's been a pleasure and a priviledge". The Wallop family were understandably upset, they were visibly shaken, they wanted answers.

This incident scarred Eggy Wallop for life, when he wasn't thinking of anything in particular it was this Christmas memory that replayed through his mind. Years went by like this, every Christmas the same note and the same thing happened, no explanation was found. I guess this is one of the reasons why his family turned from devout Santa worshipers into Jehovah's Witnesses.

The second day of the search has started out badly, I woke up late and missed the bus to my next contact. I've decided to ask passersby on the streets if they have heard of this elusive man.

Walking down past Wilkinsons I spot a mother and child, the mother tells the child to "get away from those rats," I think the mother is mistaken because the child is chasing pigeons, not rats. I ask her where she was on the evening of the 21st July. She tells me that it isn't any of my business and unless I want a fat lip I best move along. It seems that people are keeping Eggy Wallop's whereabouts hidden for some reason.

This may only be my second day at being a detective, but I haven't failed a case yet. If people think they can keep quiet and disrupt an investigation they have another thing coming.

I continue looking for information, but everyone is keeping tight-lipped. I decide that the best idea is to go home and get some rest, hopefully tomorrow will turn up more leads.

Upon opening my front door I spot an envelope on the floor, it's addressed to a "Mr. Adam Byrne", that's me. The letter reads:

Dear Mr. Adam Byrne,

I've been watching you. You may think this is one big game and that playing detectives is fun and a bit of a laugh, but I strongly advise you to give up this pathetic nonsense. It's in everybody's best interests that you forget about Eggy Wallop, he doesn't exist. I mean, can a man with such a name really be real? Have you actually thought about it? Who would name their child Eggy Wallop? It just doesn't make sense.

Stop your seraching at once, otherwise very untoward things will happen to you. Things that only you can dream of dreaming about. Heed my words.

Yours faithfully,

A friend.

It seems that someone's feathers have been ruffled, they don't want the world to know what happened on 21st July. There's only one man who knows and I will search every shore, look in every crack, and explore every hole until I find him.

Day Three

Eggy Wallop haunts my dreams, nightmares and every waking moment. I recieved a phone call earlier today from an anonymous source telling me they have information regarding the whereabouts of Eggy Wallop.


The drive to Brighton is long and treacherous, more than once I was stopped by highwaymen and vagabonds. The journey took me to an abandoned warehouse where I met with a contact named Francis, he told me he once had an affair with Eggy Wallop and that he was solely responsible for the downfall of his marriage.

It seems that whoever this Eggy Wallop fellow is he's upset and hurt a lot of people. There was me thinking he was a charming, sweet, and very well-to-do gentleman. I look into Francis' eyes and hope that this man stood in front of me isn't a sign of things to come for myself. I love my wife and children and my marriage is one of the only things I hold dear to me, that and my self-initiated quest for Eggy Wallop.

The sky begins to grow dark and the sun is starting to set. I tell Francis that if we want to live to see another day we best get to a hotel before it becomes impossible to see. These Winter nights are some of the worst I've ever encountered.

Francis and I check in to a B&B called The Lamb and Sausage. There's only one room left and it only has a double bed in it. I tell Francis I've been happily married for 21 years and if anybody is going to try any funny business it won't be me. We get under the covers as the cold begins to set in, we huddle up close for warmth, within 5 minutes everything goes blank. My wife flashes before my eyes, I really don't know how, if it all, I'll explain this to her. Three days as an independent investigator and my marriage is already being questioned. I'm starting to realise this isn't going to be a walk in the park...

Day Four

I wake up with a salty taste in my mouth, despite the incriminating evidence I hope and pray last night was just a dream. I turn over and Francis is gone, did I dream it? Does Francis really exist? Or like Gods and monsters is he a figment of my overactive imagination?
The door opens and there stands Francis holding a tray with breakfast on. I cannot bear to look at him, he's not only put my marriage in jeopardy but he's wasting my valuable time. I could be searching for Eggy Wallop right now.

We eat our breakfast in uncomfortable silence, my head is pounding and I want more than anything to be away from Francis. An hour goes by and I can stay no more, I tell Francis I think I left the bath running at home, and leave.

Out on the streets of Brighton I'm at a loss. With no leads to go on I head to the beach to gather my bearings. The beach is beautiful, the sky is blue and I begin to regain my composure. Out of the corner of my eye I spot a glimmering object...

A message in a bottle, I've always wanted to find one of these and I thought they only existed in films. Apparently, only in films and in Brighton it seems. I open the bottle and empty out the contents. The bottle contains a key and a note with a number and words written on. The note reads "24601 - Brighton train station", I figure it must be for a safety deposit box.

I whistled for a cab, I got in and told him my destination. The driver could probably smell the shame on me mingled with the salty sea air. I pay my fare and step out of the cab. Only when the driver drove away did I realise that the driver was in fact, Francis.

I could be imagining it, it wouldn't be the first time my mind has played tricks on me. Only last week did I think I'd won the Lottery, not until after I'd rang everybody in my phonebook did I realise that I hadn't even put the Lottery on. There were some very embarrasing phone calls that followed.

I step into the train station and find safety deposit box 24601, I open it to find another note, this time written in arabic. Nothing is ever easy in this life, you'd do well to remember that. It looks like whatever I decide to do next it will have to involve somebody who can read arabic. The only person I know who can read arabic is Francis. Oh, how I do love irony.

Day Four

It's been four tireless days of clutching at straws but I think I'm finally on to something. I pick up the phone, heave a heavy sigh and dial Francis' number. However awkward this may be it has to be done, I have no other choice or options.
Francis answers and I tell him I need his help. He laughs at me in a mocking tone, he has the upper hand and I'm far from happy about it. I tell him about the note written in arabic and plead for his help. Never in my life have I been more desperate, I tell him so and instantly regret it. We're now on his terms, your humble narrator is now at the mercy of Francis' every whim.

He tells me to meet him at the Labrador and Petticoat to show him the note and maybe something more. In an effort to regain some power I tell him, "Business first, pleasure later". He takes the bait, this may be easier than I thought. I mumble sweet nothings into the reciever just to make sure I have him on my side. I hang up the phone and head straight towards the Labrador and Petticoat.

The Labrador and Petticoat is one of Brighton's oldest pubs, opened in 1684 by Bernard Baker it has since earned the reputation of being the most unwelcome place in the South, especially for people who aren't natives of Brighton.

It takes me fifteen minutes to walk to the Labrador and Petticoat. The interior is dark, bleak and has a very musty odour; I couldn't imagine spitting in here, never mind drinking in here. There are three men huddled at the bar speaking in gruff voices. Francis is one of the men, I whistle and Francis spins around on his bar stool. I sit down in the driest corner and gesture for him to come over, like a dog coming to its master he makes his way over.

I lay the note on the table, I pull a torch out of my pocket and shine it on the note. Francis speaks in Arabic and then translates the words into English. "Eggy Wallop, or as he is more commonly known The Divine One, is the 7th God of Jupiter and came to this planet to be its saviour and protector. He found solace in and amongst the city of Brighton and its residents. After being estranged from Jupiter for 450 years he was chastised to spend all of eternity walking the Earth. As of 2012, he currently resides in the North Yorkshire town of Leyburn. He can usually be found tending to his garden or walking his dogs when the weather permits."

Francis places his hand on top of mine, it's cold and heavy, a bit like marble. I quickly stand up and run out of the door, I don't look back, I head straight back to the train station to catch the train to Leyburn. I'm so close to Eggy Wallop I can smell him. I buy my ticket and wait at the platform for the next train...

Dead Meat

Two zombies approach with feet
How do you like your spirits? I like mine neat
Twelve corpses groan and moan
Shuffle in time to my polyphonic ringtone
Eight ghouls dance to a deadly beat
Beneath the bright lights of Suburban Street
Five skeletons all made out of bone
All stop dead as I answer my phone
I say hello, I politely greet
Not knowing full well that I'm dead meat.

 

Fantasy Crystal Maze Team

We're talking about our fantasy Crystal Maze team, Simon said he'd have Stephen Hawking, a Transformer from the cartoon, a blade of grass, and Hitler. When Jamie explained that a man in a wheelchair and a cartoon robot wouldn't be very helpful on the Crystal Maze Simon got shirty.

Jamie Green's fantasy Crystal Maze team is him, Usain Bolt, Dhalsim from Street Fighter, Henry Hoover (battery operated), Benedict Cumberbatch's portrayal of Sherlock Holmes, and Tom Hanks.

Simon Wells' team comprises of himself, William Shakespeare, Q from Star Trek, Superman, Mr. Tickle from the Mr. Men books, and Michael Newman from the film Click.

My team includes myself, Charles Bronson, Nikola Tesla, Rincewind from the Discworld novels, Ash from Evil Dead II, and Michael Caine.

Brave New World Illustration

I recently recieved an email back from House of Illustration in regards to my submitted illustrations for the Aldous Huxley novel 'Brave New World'. Unfortunately, my images weren't selected but in all honesty I really enjoyed created them and I feel that these have propelled my work into a different direction and for that I'm very pleased. Here are the three images I submitted based on scenes throughout the book that stood out to me so lucidly and vividly.

“‘Well, then they were the parents –

I mean, not the babies, of course; the other ones.’”

“The lift was crowded with men from the Alpha Changing Rooms,

and Lenina’s entry was greeted by many friendly nods and smiles.

She was a popular girl.”

“The Savage pushed her away with such force that she staggered and fell.

‘Go,’ he shouted, standing over her menacingly, ‘get out of my sight or I’ll kill you.’

He clenched his fists.”

 

A Visual Interpretation of Brave New World

This book is an artist multiple. It is in conjunction with the House of Illustration competition to produce illustrations for Brave New World.