Farewell to Inky Jim

The story of Inky Jim Jinkers should be one known to every schoolboy in the land. It is a story of commitment, love and, in the end addiction. As tales go, it is both romantic and cautionary. By rights, Jim Jinkers should be as famous to British people as Sir Winston Churchill or Henry VIII.

Jim Jinkers was born in 1971 to Terry and Sheila Jinkers, both shepherds. Like many people of his generation, Inky Jim was of the last intake of school pupils to have an inkwell on their desk in the classroom. During a rainy lunch break early in 1977, a friend of Jinkers' made Jim a fateful dare - I dare you to drink that ink.

From that day, he was hooked. By the end, he was drinking up to 12 bottles of ink a day, but in the early stages (as is so often the case) it seemed like his ink drinking habit was manageable, sociable. The odd blue wee aside, Jim did not start to show any ill effects until his final year at university in 1992, when all his teeth fell out. A graduate position at Parker Pens in Newhaven, East Sussex, did little to help his condition. Now a helpless addict, Jim was dismissed after 18 months when he was caught mainlining ink cartridges during tea breaks.

Perhaps the greatest tragedy of Jim Jinkers' short life, however, was that his ink drinking drove many women away. Jinkers' lot was a lonely one, and after the death of his father in 2001, he found himself living alone and with no-one to reign in his baser drives. By 2005 Jim was bathing in ink and waking up with a shot glass of Quink on his bedside table.

Now heavily in debt and farting brown clouds, Jim Jinkers found himself on the street for the last 12 months of his life, rooting through bins for discarded ballpoint pens and licking free newspapers at the recycling dump. His growing ink blindness was what finally accounted for him, accidentally drinking a bottle of India Ink rather than his favoured water soluable brands, which turned his colon into a Rorschach Test.

There is much that we can learn from the sad, short life of Jim Jinkers. Chief amongst these lessons, surely, is that you should not drink ink.

"Inky" Jim Jinkers, 19th January 1971 - 19th November 2009.

Neville

On Saturday at tea time, I watched the end of the film Jurassic Park. One thing and another, Jurassic Park has played a notable part in my life. I saw it in the cinema when it first came out, and it became the first big summer blockbuster that everyone was talking about that I too was able to talk about. 5 years later, I studied it in excruciating depth for my Media Studies 'A' level coursework.

Yes, I did Media Studies at 'A' level. Yes, I'm aware that it's a doss subject. That is why I picked it. I got three A grades at 'A' level, so I'm not going to sit here and have you plebby scum judge me.

All of this pales into insignificance - the cinema trip, the coursework - when my old mate Neville the T. Rex appears on screen to deliver what I think is his greatest ever performance. Life can be hard for a jobbing actor who is also a T. Rex. Whilst anti-discrimination legislation guarantees him a fair chance, it's always going to be difficult to find a role for him in EastEnders or The Bill. Really, Neville has been typecast as a T. Rex. Fans of dinosaurs will also have seen him in the BBC's documentary series Walking With Dinosaurs. He was also a body double for the 1998 remake of the film Godzilla.

Some of you may be thinking, 'surely all the dinosaurs in Jurassic Park are female, as made plain by the plot?'. But come on, people. You're obviously the type of person who calls out to Barbara Windsor "hello Peggy!" in the street. These people are actors. Neville, who is very much at one with his sexuality (as you might expect from someone who does all his scenes naked), and understood that he had to play a female T. Rex in the film. His sympathetic portrayal has impressed a generation of film-goers. It's just a pity that the scene in which he finds out that he's missed his period was left on the cutting room floor.

Such deceptions are not uncommon in the land of film. Katherine Hepburn was played by two midgets - Ethan and Ralph - stood on the other's shoulders for the entire shooting of On Golden Pond, Hepburn dubbing her lines in afterward. In more recent years, Harrison Ford was played by a monkey in The Fugitive.

The real test of a great film is if you can put this knowledge to one side and lose yourself in the story and the characters. Jurassic Park ticks these boxes for me. But when the credits roll, it always seems right to doff one's hat to Neville, an unsung hero of modern entertainment.

Avec crudities

Let's face it, readers, like them or not, penises have played a part in all of our lives at some point. Casting aside the Freud-inspired worship of meaty wangs, it is still easy to understand why it is they represent something which has proved irresistible to the artistic community. On nearly every toilet wall, text book inside cover or biology GCSE paper, you will find images of the phallus. There is something satisfyingly primal about these adornments. And also, amusing. Amusing, that is, if you happen to be a giggly, immature child. Fortunately, I am all of these things, and as such present for your pleasure this post here today.

Early this year, five of this country's most inspirational they-were-once-young minds found themselves in each other's company of a Saturday evening. The location was a pub in Brighton. What happened next has lain dormant in a little sketchbook ever since. The contents are so potent that it's a wonder that the book has not spontaneously ignited since, but it is posterity's gain that it has not. Because what happened next was an artistic symposium of ruinous power. Five people, one pen, one pad, one cock drawing each. The rules were simple... draw a cock. There was another rule as well, actually, and that was that there was to be no premeditative pondering. These cocks had to come from the unconscious mind. Let's have a look at them.

This is cock number one. The artist was a 39-year old male Flash™ programmer. They were born in the West Midlands, an earthy and direct place which obviously had a profound effect on this cock. Look at the pressure of the penmanship and the forcefulness of the lines. This cock is a little bullet not to be messed with. Particularly worthy of note is the urethral opening, drawn with a last flourishing stroke. This is the sort of cock which inspires confidence and respect.

This is cock number two. The artist was a 30-year old female civil servant. Unlike the creator of cock one, this artist grew up in bucolic surroundings in south eastern England, which shows in the ethereal beauty and simplicity of this cock. Particularly of note here is the meatiness of the shaft in relation to its companion knackers. This is not to diminish the importance of the balls to this drawing, the left one being particularly worthy of note... fleshy and bulbous, with three distinct and proud pubes. Topped off with a linear representation of some ejaculation, this classical image of the meat and two veg proves that classical images hold that status for a good reason.

This is cock number three. The artist was a 36-year old male working in debt collection via legal means rather than the traditional car park beatings. This is a very interesting drawing indeed. From the halting lines - compare this to the first two examples' smooth, single-stroke depiction of the willy and hangers - right up to the juiciness of the ejaculate, this is a cock to be reckoned with. Its most notable characteristic, of course, is the detail given to the glans penis. Not for this artist the simple demarcation of a single line. This cock is the sort of medically accurate drawing which would proudly adorn the printed content of a biology text book, rather than its subsequent additions.


This is cock number four. The artist was a 39-year old male computer programmer. Like the previous offering, this cock is characterised by a halting line. But just as cock three, it does not diminish the effectiveness of this musket. The pubic hairs are equidistantly distributed on a taut scrotum, whilst the penis itself is drawn at an angle which leaves the viewer in no doubt as to its tumescence. This cock, too, has an exceptionally detailed glans. Whereas the previous entry would well-illustrate a medical tome, this racier entry would be well suited to a filthy lithograph.

This is cock number five. Its artist was a 28-year old male who, uniquely for this experiment was actually an artist. Perhaps this explains the florid nature of the pubic hair detail and the style-over-substance approach to the shaft. This over-ornate offering does still have much to offer, particularly in the subtle detailing on the glans and urethral opening, and the juiciness of the spunk. However, the over-intricate balls can draw the eye away from the business end a little too much.


CONCLUSION

These five cocks represent a major body of work in the ongoing art of anatomy. Each one has its own unique character and personality, and each one has much to offer the development of the genre. However, it has to be said that cock number 4 is the standout offering. Noteworthy construction, coupled to anatomical accuracy and economy of line makes this wanger a winner. A special mention, however, must go to cock number 2, the classicism of which should inspire all who see it. It is very much my favourite offering.

However, this is not a line drawn in the sand. I welcome all further offerings of cock drawings, either in the comments or by email (link at the top of the sidebar). However, I would request that anyone wishing to submit an art does not do so anonymously, because that would be a bit too weird. Also, anyone emailing photographs of their actual cock will have their details passed on to the authorities.

Bear and bunny, in that order

(click it for bigger)

Pictures for sale

It's that time again when I try to clear some space for new piles of drawings and pictures by trying to find worthier homes for existing ones. There are 4 pictures here, all with suggested prices, though canny negotiators or bulk buyers may be able to get discounts. I also do commissions for people, if that floats your particular boat.

Boxer (10" x 10" (with a depth of 1"), acrylic on canvas, £65)
Fabio Capello (15" x 11", marker pen and watercolour on 220 gsm cartridge paper, £50)*
Darts tournament (12" x 8", pen, ink and watercolour on 220 gsm cartridge paper, £40)

* football fans may also note I also have not-quite award winning strip Shit Shot Mungo artwork available.

If you are interested in any of the above, or a bespoke creation, email me clicking here.

Genito-urinary medicine clinic

The other day, as I am prone to do, I had a brilliant idea. I was watching some tennis after lunch, but mainly having a little post-prandial nappins because I am getting old. I was awoken by a familiar foe: my own bladder. It was full of urine which I needed to expel.

Having a full bladder is no fun. Things are very tightly packed inside your cavities, so a big melon of a bladder pushes on your other squishy bits and makes you very uncomfortable. Surely humans should have evolved their way out of this problem by now?

So, instead I hitched my cart to the Intelligent Design wagon, in as much as I am very intelligent and have designed a solution. It is simple: put the bladder in the scrotum. Please admire my diagrams (click the picture for a bigger version).
It is probably worth pointing out at this stage that this is only applicable to male genito-urinary medicine. Ladies, I'm afraid you'll have to figure out your own solution. However, with all the additional bits you have rattling round in there, I'm guessing a full bladder is probably the least of your worries.

Anyway, as you can see from Figure 1, the current urinary system is fairly elegant and, most importantly, it works. But does it work smart? The answer is no. Ergonomic design principles have been disregarded, as well as your most tender assets - your cobblers - reduced to hanging exposed where any passing child or slighted woman may kick them. So, to Figure 2. As you can see, I have moved the bladder to the scrotal sac. This will free up vital space in your peritoneal cavity for that extra sausage or a slice of pie. Also, the wrinkled skin of the scrotum will allow the bladder to inflate to a good 3 or 4 litre capacity - rather than its current meek single unit - giving the busy male extra time between wees. NOT TO MENTION the additional bonus of a huge package.

Obviously, this change is not without its difficulties. The testes would have to grow accustomed to the rather darker surroundings of the renal system. Perhaps more troublesome would be man's pesky old enemy, gravity. With the bladder lower than the urethra, evacuation could prove problematic, although a spirited squeeze - akin to that of a bagpipe player - should resolve any really stubborn dregs.

The issue which needs to be most urgently addressed, however, is that I have just noticed that the bladder isn't technically connected to the urethra in any way. There's a chance that Figure 2 won't work. No, it won't. Bugger.

As you were.

Wimblemund part 2: Numbers

Yesterday, every British player bar Andrew Murray and Elena Baltacha were sent packing and the BBC helpfully pushed some footage of Anne Keothavong leaving her press conference in tears after some rotten 'quick, prod a stick in it' questions from the floor. The BBC HD channel even had an option where you could watch the replay and taste her tears as they ran down the screen. I'm not going to say that interrupting the coverage of the Murray match to show us this and then sticking it up on the website so we could all watch it again was distasteful in any way. No, in fact, I am. The BBC do a brilliant job year-in, year-out at Wimbledon, but this was prurient gutter journalism of the worst kind. Thanks, BBC.

The match which really caught my attention yesterday was the first one on Court 2. Caroline Wozniacki, who last week won Eastbourne and is the youngest woman in the top 10, beat Kimiko Date Krumm in three sets, picking up confidence all the way through as Date Krumm flagged. This is perhaps understandable. At 38 - 39 later this year - Date Krumm is the oldest person in this year's singles draw. Wimbledon fans may remember her from 1996, where in her pre-marriage incarnation as Kimiko Date she took Steffi Graf to a deciding set in the semi-final. The fascination for me was the age difference on display in yesterday's match. Date Krumm turned professional in 1989, a full year before her opponent was even born. This kind of differential is remarkable, as it would be in numerous sports. Tennis at the top level is a preserve of the young. Roger Federer, at 27, is considered a veteran whilst if you stick a pin in the ladies' singles draw you can pretty much guarantee that one of the competitors in the match you selected will have been born in the 1990s.

More notable still is the fact that Kimiko Date Krumm just returned to the circuit last year after a 12 year absence. The thing about doing this is not just the fact that when you step back out on court you'll most likely be playing someone who was in nappies when you last walked off. Tennis is run by the rankings system. It dictates your position in the draw, it even limits which events you are permitted to enter. A low-ranked player, if they are fortunate enough to qualify for a Grand Slam tournament or be given a wildcard entry by the organisers will almost certainly be rewarded with a spectacularly unwinnable first round match. You're the world number 348. You're excited to be out on Centre Court at Wimbledon, but the key thing to remember is that, after you've knocked your pipe ash out on your shoe, finished your sausage roll and fixed your racquet with sellotape, you have to play the world number 5. He's 7 foot 4. He looks like Boris Karloff and serves at 160 mph. He's taking you down to Chinatown.

Date Krumm, whose highest ranking was number 4 in late-1995 is now ranked 142. Aside from admiring the physical conditioning which she must have maintained, just as impressive is the mental strength to start slogging away again. Because the rankings hold no sentiment, they are cold, hard - and often incomprehensible - facts. Nevertheless, 142 is pretty good for someone who has been out of the system for over a decade. And it got me thinking about how to improve and extend the relevance of rankings in sport.

Needless to say, my idea is almost bewilderingly stupid as well as being totally unsustainable. However, I can't help but feel it would benefit everyone in the world if we all had a ranking. As well as being a shorthand indicator of excellence, it would give greater meaning to those men and women currently in the world top 10. There are approximately 3 billion men and 3 billion women in the world. If you're Rafael Nadal, suddenly you become the best one from a monumental field rather than an exclusive bunch of sweaty herberts. I am fabulously bad at tennis. However, I can't believe I am the only one. I reckon that, as an able-bodied adult male from Northern Europe, I could make the top 1 billion. Just thinking about that has increased my own feelings of self-worth and positivity. This system will work.

Of course, the downside of this framework will be for the poor soul ranked 3 billion. He or she will almost certainly commit suicide. Luckily, they will probably fail, such is their dazzling ineptitude. Yes, this system will bloody work!

P.S. There has been an elephant in the room throughout this post, so I had better lay my cards on the table (and mix as many metaphors as I can): Caroline Wozniacki is really beautiful. There. I said it.

P.P.S. The 7'4", big serving goliath who looks like Boris Karloff may very well be based on Argentine number 1 Juan Martin Del Potro, who bludgeoned Arnaud Clement yesterday in straight sets. He's my outside tip for the title this year, sports fans.