top of page


In Shrewsbury, I would stumble home intoxicated after heavy ale sessions. I often got moments of clarity amidst these hazes, but by morning everything would be forgotten. For ten years this continued.

One night I got home and fell into my ironing board, which had been an Everest of creases and the main reason I had gone out boozing in the first place. I cursed, jumped into bed and duly passed out.

I awoke in the middle of the night with the street lamp shining onto the clothes scattered about my bedroom floor. With alcohol still very much present in my blood, made out faces and smiling teeth on the creased clothes and for a second believed every single one of the garments were taunting me. I put the light on, grabbed a pen and wrote down my thoughts. The primitive effort that is "Ironing Bored" was the result of this. It felt natural as I scribbled away and although still three sheets to the wind... it all made sense.

bottom of page