Wimbledon, and I missed the joyous spectacle of Jeffrey Archer going down, but then I didn’t really because the verdict was extensively covered in the Spanish newspapers where, for some extraordinary reason, he was likened to a modern-day Oscar Wilde. Well yes, apart from being conspicuously un-gay and even more conspicuously unable to write.
Also, I missed Madonna’s deification. When I left she was a fading Detroit pop star but I’ve come back to find that she is sharing a social plinth with a fat blonde hairdresser from Wales who seems to have become famous after admitting to a fondness for blinking. The foreign newspapers missed that one. Perhaps they were diverted with the problems in the Middle East.
It seems that I also missed a hugely funny television programme about child pornography, although I’m told that most of the people who found it offensive missed it too.
Then there has been this business with Michael Portillo. When I left he was going to be leader of the Conservative Party. But now the clever money seems to be on some bloke who I’ve never heard of. Is he good at blinking as well? One has to hope not or he might miss himself.
I was about to deduce that I had missed nothing when my eye was caught by the New Labour exhibition at the Saatchi Gallery in London. What on earth were they exhibiting? Perhaps they had taken a leaf out of Tracey Emin’s book. Perhaps this is where all the National Health Service beds went. And all the bricks that shouldhave been used to build playcentres for the kiddies. As well as the last vestiges of our pride and dignity.
Have you ever heard of anything quite so preposterous as an exhibition, in a world-renowned art gallery, that is named after the ruling political party? A party that received fewer votes than the girl who likes blinking.
But, that said, I would love more than anything to do my own New Labour exhibition. ‘This is the egg that hit Mr Prescott and here’s the shirt worn by Tony when he had the sweat problem. And if you follow me now past the Women’s Institute zone, we can see Peter Mandelson’s mortgage-application form, lovingly entwined with Reinaldo’s visa-waiver document.’
In the restaurant I would have lots of mugs, lots of mad cows and lots of free fish for the Spanish visitors. In the play zone I would have hundreds of savage, rabid foxes and a helter-skelter. If anyone said that wasn’t very New Labour, I would tell them it was a spiral staircase for disabled people. Inside I would have Ron Davies in the lavatories, Keith Vaz on the till and audio guides recorded by Michael Martin. And when it all went horribly wrong I would blame Mo Mowlam.
Keen to find out what had actually been exhibited at the gallery and if I was on the right track, I dug out an old copy of
Time Out
and was somewhat bewildered to find it had singled out a video exhibit by Liane Lang. Who she is, I have no idea. Another
Big Brother
contestant perhaps?
My bewilderment turned to bafflement when I read what the video contains: a clay hand manipulates awoman’s groin fringed with spiky black hair. Devoid of sexiness, the image, we are assured, is perplexing. You’re damn right it’s perplexing. And it gets worse. Rebecca Warren, it says here, uses clay to a more playful and seductive effect. Painted with a wash of pink, a woman opens her legs to the lascivious attentions of what might be a grey dog.
Astonished, I telephoned the gallery and asked what any of this had to do with Tony Blair and his third way. ‘Oh, nothing,’ said the girl. ‘It’s just that the exhibition opened on election day and we sort of thought the New Labour name fitted.’ Actually, it does.
It’s a load of metropolitan claptrap. I may have missed the exhibition, which closes today, but to be honest I didn’t miss it at all.
Sunday 19 August 2001
Rule the Waves? These Days We’re Lost at Sea
My childhood memories of Britain’s maritime achievements centre around endless
Also, I missed Madonna’s deification. When I left she was a fading Detroit pop star but I’ve come back to find that she is sharing a social plinth with a fat blonde hairdresser from Wales who seems to have become famous after admitting to a fondness for blinking. The foreign newspapers missed that one. Perhaps they were diverted with the problems in the Middle East.
It seems that I also missed a hugely funny television programme about child pornography, although I’m told that most of the people who found it offensive missed it too.
Then there has been this business with Michael Portillo. When I left he was going to be leader of the Conservative Party. But now the clever money seems to be on some bloke who I’ve never heard of. Is he good at blinking as well? One has to hope not or he might miss himself.
I was about to deduce that I had missed nothing when my eye was caught by the New Labour exhibition at the Saatchi Gallery in London. What on earth were they exhibiting? Perhaps they had taken a leaf out of Tracey Emin’s book. Perhaps this is where all the National Health Service beds went. And all the bricks that shouldhave been used to build playcentres for the kiddies. As well as the last vestiges of our pride and dignity.
Have you ever heard of anything quite so preposterous as an exhibition, in a world-renowned art gallery, that is named after the ruling political party? A party that received fewer votes than the girl who likes blinking.
But, that said, I would love more than anything to do my own New Labour exhibition. ‘This is the egg that hit Mr Prescott and here’s the shirt worn by Tony when he had the sweat problem. And if you follow me now past the Women’s Institute zone, we can see Peter Mandelson’s mortgage-application form, lovingly entwined with Reinaldo’s visa-waiver document.’
In the restaurant I would have lots of mugs, lots of mad cows and lots of free fish for the Spanish visitors. In the play zone I would have hundreds of savage, rabid foxes and a helter-skelter. If anyone said that wasn’t very New Labour, I would tell them it was a spiral staircase for disabled people. Inside I would have Ron Davies in the lavatories, Keith Vaz on the till and audio guides recorded by Michael Martin. And when it all went horribly wrong I would blame Mo Mowlam.
Keen to find out what had actually been exhibited at the gallery and if I was on the right track, I dug out an old copy of
Time Out
and was somewhat bewildered to find it had singled out a video exhibit by Liane Lang. Who she is, I have no idea. Another
Big Brother
contestant perhaps?
My bewilderment turned to bafflement when I read what the video contains: a clay hand manipulates awoman’s groin fringed with spiky black hair. Devoid of sexiness, the image, we are assured, is perplexing. You’re damn right it’s perplexing. And it gets worse. Rebecca Warren, it says here, uses clay to a more playful and seductive effect. Painted with a wash of pink, a woman opens her legs to the lascivious attentions of what might be a grey dog.
Astonished, I telephoned the gallery and asked what any of this had to do with Tony Blair and his third way. ‘Oh, nothing,’ said the girl. ‘It’s just that the exhibition opened on election day and we sort of thought the New Labour name fitted.’ Actually, it does.
It’s a load of metropolitan claptrap. I may have missed the exhibition, which closes today, but to be honest I didn’t miss it at all.
Sunday 19 August 2001
Rule the Waves? These Days We’re Lost at Sea
My childhood memories of Britain’s maritime achievements centre around endless
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