So. Here's What Happened.

I’d spent over a decade in animation as an illustrator, storyboard artist and director, surrounded by genuinely brilliant people working on projects I loved. There was always more to do than you could point a stick at, which suited me perfectly — because who doesn’t like pointy things.

Then, almost overnight, the work stopped. The whole industry hit pause. It wasn’t one cause to blame — rather a perfect storm of AI, failing streaming models, shrinking budgets, and broadcasters who had apparently decided that the safest course of action was to do absolutely nothing. It was, professionally speaking, sub-optimal.

The thing about a decade in animation is that it teaches you to draw fast, draw rough, and draw with intent — to capture a mood or an idea in an instant. I’ve always gravitated toward scribbles and lines that go straight to the heart of a character. My drawings are lively rather than beautiful, shaped by years of travel, misadventure, and a family that is part Simpsons, part Bob’s Burgers, and completely off their heads. Animation gave me a place to put all of that. I loved it.

So when the work dried up, I did what any sensible person would do. Once I’d finished making my feelings known, I went back through everything I’d spent years developing and took a long hard look at what I actually had. Looking for what made my stuff mine.

Iggy and the Missing Links — animals stuck halfway between fish and whatever they were meant to become, wrestling with instincts they didn’t yet understand. Relatable, in hindsight.

Then came The Dodos — the world’s last three, blissfully unaware that survival requires at least one good life choice. A taste for danger, no instincts whatsoever… some things were truly beyond saving. Survival is extinct.

Sadly, like most pitches, neither made it to screen. And because broadcasters require full rights in exchange for development funding, they no longer belong to me. Once a project enters that system, resurrection is essentially impossible. The industry keeps them, files them somewhere, and everyone quietly moves on.

But what struck me were the characters themselves — rammed with personality, mostly unhinged admittedly, but full of something I couldn’t quite let go of. I could picture them in a seemingly endless number of ridiculous situations.

I went back to the drawing board or rather, I was sitting on the loo and dusted off an old copy of The Far Side.

That’s where Basic Instincts comes in.

A weekly one-panel comic celebrating the irreverent stupidity of the human spirit. Often superimposed onto an unwitting critter or two. Inspired by the great Gary Larson.

Each panel starts with something real — an observation, an overheard exchange, a situation I probably shouldn’t have found as funny as I did. I’ve always been accused of being a dreamer. “He’s off in his own world again,” they’d say. And they were right. I love nothing more than reflecting on a past interaction, an odd phrase, a suspiciously silly-looking animal — and there are plenty — then injecting those elements into a completely lateral scenario. Mashing things together until something unexpected pops out. It’s strange, I know. But I think it’s pretty damn cool.

The goal is simple: a quick smile, a flicker of recognition, and a momentary reminder that we’re all completely ridiculous — before you get back to pretending otherwise.

I’m working toward 100 panels. One every Tuesday. Then they become a book. Something I own, something I made, a small corner of the world that is entirely mine. Here are two, to give you a sense of what you’re in for: