I'd just left the store when a car passed at near-walking pace, the driver's left hand resting lazily on the steering wheel, with a mobile phone juggled precariously in his podgy right mitt. And being sucked slowly, yet unrelentingly, into his ample oral orifice was an objectionably long, fat sausage, doubtless of questionable provenance, which seemed to take an eternity to negotiate the daunting journey down his sluggish gullet. Bearded, greasy-haired and double-chinned, the driver was, for me, living proof that the West was finally lost.

Inspired by everyday stories, I felt compelled to make art. what luck.

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