the new yorker

GYM CARTOON IN AUGUST 6 & 13 ISSUE OF THE NEW YORKER

Pick up a copy of this week's New Yorker and swiftly flip to page 45 to cop an eyeful of this wee scribble.You can hear it being plucked from the ether on our weekly podcast "Is There Something In This?" with myself and Scott Dooley, wherever you listen to your pods.

This one is discussed on Episode #8: 'Larry Juice', which you can hear here.

Today's New Yorker Daily Cartoon: See what he's said now...

© Copyright Jason Chatfield

Last October I landed in Manchester after a 9-hour flight that took what felt like a week. When we boarded, the President had levelled a characteristically pompous threat across the Pacific, telling the so-called "Rocket Man" he had better watch himself. Rocket Man was not happy.

As the passengers all woke from our nervous slumber, the flight attendant's Northern accent honked over the speaker, "For your safety and comfort, please remain seated with your seatbelt fastened until the Captain turns off the Fasten Seat Belt sign. This will indicate that we have parked at the gate and that it is safe for you to move about."

She then continued, "Cellular phones may only be used once the Fasten Seat Belt sign has been turned off."

The seatbelt light extinguished with a polite Bong!

Like ravenous greyhounds launching after a hare, everyone swung out their smartphones and desperately took them out of Airplane Mode, opening Twitter en masse to see if the stable genius in chief had doomed us all...

I don't remember a flight I've been on in the last 10 years where the symphony of notification sounds didn't immediately penetrate the whirring of the winding down engines.

And don't get me started on clapping when the plane lands...

 

See more of my New Yorker Cartoons on their website at: 
https://www.newyorker.com/contributors/jason-chatfield

PART 3: My Last Day Submitting Cartoons to Bob Mankoff

PART 3: My Last Day Submitting Cartoons to Bob Mankoff

Fast forward to April 2017. I awoke early on a grey, foggy Spring morning and brushed my teeth wondering if today is the one in a million shot at having something published in the New Yorker...

PART 1: The New Yorker; A Primer.

PART 1: The New Yorker; A Primer.

For that reason, I'd always mentally categorised the audience of the New Yorker in the high echelons of the wealthy and powerful. A grand old publication produced 47 times a year since 1925 for what I thought was an exclusive generational string of white liberals, frequenting the penthouses of the Upper West Side. The type to throw cocktail partiesin the Hamptons and wittily discuss the stock market. I pictured the office itself a sassy madhouse of esoteric intelligentsia and whimsical japery. Seinfeld didn't help that perception.