“The only big thing you could do in England at the time was be a rock and roller, which was an option for me, but I chose to make comics. I’ve regretted that for a long time. I wish I had never been so bloody insistent that I wanted to be a comic book artist, because life has been a drag ever since. Of course if I’d gone into music I’d probably be dead from a drug overdose by now, but at least it wouldn’t’ve been such a drag in the meantime. I’d’ve had fun, getting smashed and stoned and kicking out rock and roll. Way to go! Instead I sit around inking bleeding comics pages.”

This is the essential Windsor-Smith, a combination of wit, talent and blunt opinion. He looks like a rock star. He is lanky in jeans and black boots, and smokes incessantly. I daresay he is the comics equivalent of Keith Richards on a good day, Clapton on a bad one. Not only that but he plays the guitar, and his rock musical tastes run from Jimi Hendrix to Cat Stevens. To make matters even more eccentric, Windsor-Smith now lives on a bizarre schedule wherein he begins his day at one o’clock in the morning and hits the sack around seven p.m, which is midnight in his native London. He’s living in British time. You can take the man out of Mother England but you can’t change his internal timeclock.