Painted on wood in pencil.
Again painted in watercolour pencils, so will eventually be destroyed by water, appropriate for Bioshock perhaps. I have no idea how I managed to draw this without smudging it all to hell.
As soon as snowy July is upon us, billboards pop up outside pub chains promising festive feasting delights, trying to tempt us with exquisitely photographed turkeys, who must have thought they were safe from being butchered and anally fisted post mortem for another few months at least.
For twice the price of a normal meal, you can sit down at a table where:
They have jammed more chairs in than usual, admittedly bringing back that slave galley comradery.
The staff are rushed off their feet so the wait between courses is tiresome, they are slow to react to your selfish request for mustard and you don’t even understand what the difference between English and French is anyway, probably labour relations, or working hours.
Getting to the bar is a ball ache, and you could probably just about watch a sped up episode of Friends whilst waiting to be served.
If you foolishly turned up to a works do you probably won’t be sitting next to that new blonde who started in HR, and instead get stuck next to that lying fat fuck of a project manager, who seems to be blagging his way through life. I hope you made a note of the bus timetable so you don’t have to wait 30 minutes in the cold when you decide to do a runner and enjoy at least half an evening at home instead.
As an alternate plan of action, how about going for lunch mid summer in a nice beer garden, with good service, with people of your choosing, for half the price? In fact, do that twice, and tell everyone what bullshit Christmas meals are, especially cherub faced children before you shove them into the Christmassy gutter.
Virgin Media has a nasty habit of bill creep, like a dodgy employee who pockets increasing amounts of swag from the warehouse every month when he thinks you aren’t paying attention, he has no respect for you, his filching fingers aren’t going to stop.
Whilst listening to their tinny, compressed hold music chosen by a 5 year research project entitled “What music is least likely to make our customer find the CEOs house and torch it”, you consider your life choices that have resulted in this foolish waste of time for both parties. Then they offer you a better deal, and your pyromaniac tendencies are subdued for a while, but you still migrate your email to gmail, because you know those fuckers will try something on in the future.
Aviva building and contents insurance are just as bad, for years they behave themselves, you begin to slightly… like them. Then you get a quote for £140.90, and think “I am sure it didn’t cost that much last year to protect my tiny Victorian terraced slum”. Being of an age where you long ago put insurance companies on your untrustworthy shit list, you dig out the paperwork, oh look, it was £124 last year. A quick check on houses randomly burning down and crime stats, and and you think, this premium should have gone *down*, not up!
So you do a search online, for the first company whose grating TV ads you didn’t quite manage to avoid scarring an unwanted path in your synapses, and see quotemehappy.com will do the same cover for £92.38. You phone up Aviva, they go down to £125 ish, but like a hooker with some remaining self worth and who recently got a fix, won’t go down to £115 despite your best “I am not bluffing” voice.
So you think, my empty life gives me enough time and energy to strike a blow for free market capitalism, and you get the new insurance. Then you notice “Quotemehappy.com is a trading name of Aviva Insurance Limited”.