I have not got a big head.

Physically, I mean. The size of it. Although ego-wise, I don’t have a big head either. I am not good at taking praise. Shy. English.

So you see, I have not got a big head in any capacity, neither physical nor mental.

I used to work with a guy who drew caricatures. He had this incredible skill of summing up the essence of a person in one or two brush strokes, and a finished cartoon would encapsulate not only the subject’s appearance, but their entire life history and what they had for breakfast that morning.

Except that when he picked me, he drew me with a big head. Blind spot, you see. Flaw in his technique. We were perhaps too close. In retrospect, I think it’s why he never got anywhere. Not much good at heads.

If he had been drawing Kelsey Grammar or Juan Veron then fine. But drawing me with a big head just made him look a fool.

I went to a wedding on Saturday. An old and dear friend of mine. She married a chap who I haven’t met often, but who seems like a top bloke, despite the fact that he’s just spoilt yet another back-up plan should the LTLP finally crack and desert me for a more attractive proposition. (I have to be pragmatic – there could be many better men out there – richer, better in bed, larger heads, etc.)

Anyway. They had a caricaturist at the reception.

Now, it strikes me that a jobbing wedding-reception caricaturist requires two major attributes in order to achieve success.

– A friendly and chatty disposition, able to get on with people

– The ability to draw caricatures

So when I tell you that this man had neither, you can probably see where I’m heading.

He scowled at his subjects. Grunted. Told the people at the end of the queue to eff off, as he was going home in ten minutes. All in all, somebody who should jack in the job for a role, say, working behind the counter at a Central London Post Office.

It probably didn’t help that everybody was openly laughing at his work.

The ladies all looked the same. That is, take a ‘Rachel from Friends’ wig, balance it on a hamster mask and glue on two chins of lard. His woman-hatred shone through with each vicious stab of the felt-tip.

The men got better treatment, but still emerged bemused and shaken by the experience. And all around the venue there was the crackle of latent domestics, as pissed-up bridesmaids demanded their husbands’ reassurance as to whether their cheeks were really puffed out and swollen like that.

And he drew me with a big head.

See?

Proof.

I have not got a big head.

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