We’ve all had those days. I’m a teacher: I have all those days. But what I really want to know is: how was I proposing to make this one work before I added the bits in blue?

Mal’s bad day at the nerve gas centre.

Not much to say about this one: it’s a simple concept, which gives the inner eight year old a chance to draw and greeble a robot. Yayyyyyy.

“But I’m programmed to hug.”

An actual completed one, from a time when I had some cash in my pocket, a pad of decent gsm card, and the means to pick up some proper-quality greyscale watercolour markers, so I could give this whole cartooning thing a decent go.

I did manage to sell a couple of them along the way, but the experience was enough to make me realise I needed to devote my entire attention to it in order to be even a jobbing journeyman, and at the time, writing was the artform in which I was more advanced, and in which I had a better chance of carving out a career.

‘Tis to laugh, eh?

Anyway, I didn’t sell this one, because the craft just isn’t there enough. But it still makes me smile: as an expression of my sense of humour, it’s pretty pure.

“Bone… bone… baked potato… bone… baked potato…”

Boundaries. You gotta have them. Even when Sir has to be reminded of them. And, you know, dinosaurs have always been renowned for their consensual boundaries.

“Dave! I said no hickeys!”

I have absolutely no idea what prompted this…

“Fine, then. Tell me what you’d do if you won a million dollars!”

I can think of very few things more painful than having something sharp plunged into an eyeball.

An Adam Sandler movie marathon, perhaps. Waking up each morning knowing you voted Liberal. Anal hornets.

But lets’ go with the eye thing. Don’t blink.

“Repeat: I have landed on the strange orb, and am now preparing to plant the dedication flag…”

The idea of undergoing an interview process to get into a suicide cult is, to me at least, inherently funny. I mean, you’re an apocalyptic sect that firmly believes that whatever awaits you on the other side of death if preferable to this lifetime of gummint taxes takin’ away your freedoms and guns or whatever. Surely you’ll take any body that’s warm enough and doesn’t think too hard…

So Luscious faces her past as a member of a pack of bigoted religious scumbag zealots an apocalyptic religion by creating a Youtube channel and engaging in activism to help people see the truth behind the curtains, and I, who have never been a part of one, draw bad cartoons.

The important thing is we’re both helping…

“You’re a suicide cult. I don’t see myself anywhere in five years.”

Devil at the crossroads, musical competition, pick the saddest or most inappropriate musical instrument possible… okay, so occasionally it’s not rocket science, and occasionally your not-rocket kind of implodes and crumples to the launch pad.

It’s an obvious trope, an obvious joke, and honestly, a trombone would have been funnier.

I kind of like the skeleton in the garret, though.

“Well, a fiddle is traditional, but I guess I’m willing to give it a go…”

Look, this is just piss-poor. There’s no excuse. They can’t all be great. or good. Or mediocre. Or… you know what, just pretend it’s a Garfield cartoon and we can all hate it together, okay?

“Tell me if this one is any clearer.”

I don’t know what happened when I scanned this piece, and I have absolutely no memory of what that last word should be!

Send your answers to “Past Lee Needs To Learn How to Fucking Crop Properly”, care of the email link somewhere on this website……

“Huh, whaddya know. Turns out it’s (illegible due to shitty cropping. Squirrels? Who the fuck knows?)”

I drew this over twenty years ago.

My issue comes out next month.

“Apparently, we’re due to be the centrefold in next month’s issue of Debt Collector Monthly.”