Why I'm not Jarvis Cocker



From my late teens until to my early twenties I wore black plastic spectacles, long unkempt hair, ill-fitting corduroy blazers and a sallow complexion. I hoped that I wore the same air of magnetic laissez-faire indifference as Jarvis Cocker but I'm pretty sure I was missing this last one. I was like a child wearing a mass-produced Batman costume bought from Woolworths: no-one would ever mistake me for the real thing, but they didn't have the heart to tell me and ruin my game of dress-up.

Regardless, for whatever reason, I decided to emulate Jarvis – he dances like a collection of wire coat-hangers that have been sellotaped together and covered by a shabby suit, blowing in the hot air of sewer grate. He has less meat on his bones than between the teeth of a hastily zipped-up fly. His husky whisper sounds like the night-time cooings of a disturbed cellmate with experimentation in mind. But when he points a pale and multi-knuckled digit at the world and swirls it around like a pinky in an anus, he points out that although he may be a geek, he shagged your wife last night. Try as I might, I can shag no-one's wife.



I drew the picture this image is based on some time ago at the height of my ‘Drunk Drawing’ madness. The colouring is new. I also did some screenprints of it at the time and stuck them up with wheat-paste on the only graffiti covered wall I could find in Falmouth for these photographs. You can tell how urban it all is by the colour correction on the images- it's so washed out and disenfranchised, man. And also by the blurry quaint little cottage at the back of the first picture.


I've also attached a couple of photographs of a long-haired idiot who insisted on doing some kind of ridiculous Jarvis Cocker karate dance in front of the wall. Do the world a favour and if you ever see him dance like that (and if you see him dance, chances are you'll see him dance like that) then punch him in his dumb face.

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