The Visual Potency of a Sarcastic Swagger: A Self-Portrait.

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How do I describe my appearance asks Mary from Scotland? Well she might? You never know !? Anyway I'd say to Mary, I'm a man so visually potent, I could cause a minor traffic incident just by standing near a reflective surface. If charisma had a face, it’d be mine. And if sarcasm wore trousers, they’d be tailored by my personal spite tailor.

My hair went long ago, around the time I noticed it was taking the bath water longer to drain away.” My eyebrows are less facial features and more punctuation marks permanently stuck in bold italics, like they’re reacting to the absurdity of existence.

My eyes? Twin portals to a realm where every thought is a punchline and every stare is a passive-aggressive TED Talk. They don’t twinkle they interrogate! You don’t look into my eyes, you survive them.

Clothing wise, I dress like a man who’s just been kicked out of a philosophy lecture for heckling the lecturer with better arguments. There’s always a jacket involved usually one that looks like it’s seen things. Things like Thatcher’s downfall, the rise of ironic moustaches, and at least three pub brawls over the correct pronunciation of “scone.”

And my walk? It’s not so much a walk as a controlled swagger! Like gravity owes me money and I've come to collect. Every step is a statement. Every pause is a threat. I don’t enter rooms, I colonise them.

In short, I look like the lovechild of satire and a well timed insult. If confidence had a postcode, it’d be wherever I'm standing. And if you ever see me in the wild, don’t make eye contact unless you’re ready to question your life choices and your haircut.


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