Scab’s mediums know no bounds.

His origins, he told me, are in roughly drawn comic books, produced to vent his frustrations as a child who then slipped into the dirty underbelly of London’s underground graffiti scene.

Since then, he has moved into delicate pencil sketches, deeply intuitive photography, oil painting, many forms of professional illustration and mural work, animation, creative writing, tattooing, plasticine creations and modifying found objects.

This makes it impossible to describe his style in any general way, but the more I allowed my eyes to consume his offerings, the more reoccurring themes began to appear.

He has a definite fascination with a few specific things: almost every piece presents a myriad of distorted characters with nightmarish proportions; exquisite expressions on grossly exaggerated features which somehow retain incredible realism and breath-taking detail.

Despite the churning of my stomach, I also found a hugely compassionate side to Scab’s work.

His creations are shocking, sure, but they have that deranged sympathy which ties into the inevitable truths of the real world.

Ironically Scabs’ artwork has earned him a couple of nights in a prison cell and by the same token a place in the finals of the BBC Wildlife Artist of the year competition.