Not many people know this but before Rembrandt Van Rijn was famous for his matchstick men and women paintings he had a nice little earner producing saucy seaside postcards.
In the olden days the pancreas was thought to be where orgasms came from.
Most people couldn’t afford to have a portrait of themselves done for Christmas or to put on a tea-towel or a mug so they would go down to the harbour and wait for Rembrandt to sail past in his boat. Rembrandt would shout out the names of famous footballers (or Soccer players if the peasants looked American) and if the person on the dockside could make a rude anagram out of the name then Rembrandt would come ashore and paint them for free.
In 1985 when Rembrandt died it was estimated that he had been dead for a lot longer.
Rembrandt loved to paint cars and in his spare time he would go to the local car park and tip paint all over the cars that were parked in the disabled bays without a blue badge.
Rembrandt was also the name of my first cat but he couldn’t paint at all he just looked at me funny when I took my trousers off.
I miss that cat.
In 1986 Rembrandt (the artist, not my cat) was still dead. My cat, Rembrandt, strangely enough died in 1987. I didn’t wear any trousers for a whole year as a mark of respect.
I spent 1988 in prison for indecent exposure and it was whilst in Prison that I learned that Rembrandt (the artist, not my cat) was also a great saxophone player and even had a chance to record an album with David Hasselhoff (HasselHoff translated directly from the German/Austrian/Bulgarian dialect actually means “Shrunken-Sperm”).
It was also around this time I was admitted to hospital for what was to be the first of many psychotic episodes. They told me that everything would be OK if I just kept taking my tablets and never ever started a blog on the internet.
Are you still reading this?
Words © D. Archer. Pictures by RVJ.