Pseudo-Intellectual Business

I’ve just discovered a link between two things I love to rant about. Actually I’m kicking myself for not spotting it before. The more I think about it, the more obvious it is.

The link I have made is this: People who use Business Bullshit are in fact a breed of pseudo-intellectual.

Regular readers will know that I love to bait pseudo-intellectuals and expose them for what they are – bullshit merchants who know several big words and like to quote philosophy in order to make themselves  appear better than everybody else. The truth is, of course, that they blind people with their vocabulary because ultimately they don’t actually say anything that makes any sense.

My favourite pseudo-intellectuals are people who stand in front of vomit stains in contemporary art museums and try to impress upon anybody who is willing to lend an ear that the piece of shit in front of them is something more than the shallow mess it actually is.

Another breed is the hipster who dresses like a nerd just to be different and “writes random poetry to express himself”, poetry that is truly awful and meaningless, I hasten to add.

It’s no real leap of logic to discover that a new breed of pseudo-intellectual lives in the upper echelons of high management and bombards his staff with weird business argon that nobody understands, and that his peers pretend to understand.

I am disappointed with myself because this type of pseudo-intellectual has been with me my entire working life. I have found myself in meetings with people from various companies, all trying to impress upon everybody else how important and intelligent they are,  while speaking utter jibberish to bamboozle us all.

In their eyes, their peers are thinking “Wow! This guy really knows what he is talking about. We must do business with him.”

The truth is rather sad. People actually think “What in the name of all that is Holy is this ballbag talking about? It makes no bloody sense.”

Such verbal diarrhoea is responsible for many a rant from yours truly but, more importantly, inspired Scott Adams, then a disgruntled employee, to create the now massively famous Dilbert cartoon series.

At this point, I have to add that some of my work colleagues have said in the past that I bear a striking resemblance to Dilbert – judge for yourself.

Dilbert

Plastic Mancunian

I have never met Scott Adams so their theory is nonsense.

Anyway, here are a couple of typical Dilbert cartoons that illustrate the point.

The idea of setting up a buzzword bingo card has appealed to me for years but the problem is that business bullshit is an evolving beast with new terms popping out of the bull with alarming frequency.  This means that lowly employees like me would have to keep on top of these new terms and this is a full time job that I don’t have time to pursue.

Here are a few new ones:

“I want to jump on your radar!”

“Thought leaders”

“Idea sherpa”

“Punch a puppy”

“Thought shower”

These are terms that make me want to cringe with embarrassment.

Many years ago, there was a comedy show called Drop the Dead Donkey in the UK that had a character called Gus Hedges who basically used bullshit to communicate with his staff. Some of the terms he used were laughable – and now over 20 years later, the terms he used actually sound more believable.

Here are some of his best lines:

“We've got to downsize our sloppiness overload, Joy. Am I making myself clear?”

“There is just something I'd like to pop into your percolator, see if it comes out brown.”

“I'm setting you free. Free to roam the high seas of enterprise as the buccaneers of our broadcasting future.”

“I'm in major cellular rejuvenation mode, fast-tracking my way to eternal biological viability.”

“I think we have a slight togetherness shortfall here.”

“You see, when it comes to sexual interfacing with the female gender group, I've always been caution-orientated due to ongoing problems of an adaptive nature regarding the gooiness factor on the physical front.”

“Jill, could you come for a brief scuba in my think tank?”

“We're merely running our bulletins through the cappuccino machine of innovation, see if it comes out frothy.”

“Just a thought I wanted to pop into your fishbowl to see if it blows bubbles.”

“Problems are just the pregnant mothers of solutions.”

The good thing about Gus Hedges is that he is totally fictional. Sadly, there thousands upon  thousands of pseudo-intellectual managers who seem to have adopted him as a role model. Some pseudo–intellectuals like to quote philosophers; other like to quote Gus Hedges.

To conclude, I found a business bullshit generator that may act as inspiration for any pseudo-intellectuals desperate to climb the corporate ladder with no talent other than their use of meaningless vocabulary.

Here’s a couple I generated:

Synergistically streamline enterprise-wide collaboration and idea-sharing

Compellingly envisioneer standardized "outside the box" thinking

Uniquely reinvent sticky vortals

Have a go yourself – follow this link.

The Madness of Art

I read something on the internet last week and I didn’t initially know how to react. It is about a painting.

Here’s a summary of what I read:

The painting by Nua On, who made his debut In November 2013 following several years of development of his special painting style, begins as bold medium length strokes in many directions and has progressed to incorporate dabs of paint, using a sensuous colour palette of Winsor Violet, Lavender and Silver.

The painting was for sale at the princely sum of almost 500 American Dollars and with it, you get a Certificate of Authenticity together with a biography of the artist and a photograph.

Now when I read this, I thought the words were describing a budding new artist, trained to master his or her art and trying to make a living selling their so-called masterpiece to gullible pseudo-intellectuals. The painting itself was dreadful, a mishmash of daubs that would have had contemporary art critics, wetting themselves with glee and uttering nonsensical sentences to describe what was going through the artist’s head as the brush strokes were applied with words like:

Nua On demonstrates the inner conflict of the mind perfectly, fusing irony and metaphysics in a manner that represents the love affair of souls, destined to meet but finding themselves travelling apart in an ethereal medium of flame and liquid with only their thoughts of the emptiness of atomic division to hint at their ultimate purpose. As Socrates once said: Be as you wish to seem. I cannot elucidate these feelings more humbly.

I imagine that the naïve pseudo-intellectuals will rush to buy this mess at the bargain price offered and spend hours reading the inspirational story of the artist while gazing into his eyes on the photograph and struggling to contain their orgasmic urges.

But there is something I haven’t told you about this painting, dear reader.

It is special.

The artist looks like this:

I swear I am not making this up, 

Nua On is a fucking elephant!! 

I wonder whether the poor creature signed the back of the painting by dipping it’s enormous foot in a bucket of paint and slopping it onto the canvas.

I know that I have basically said that the painting is utter shit but, having been dragged around the Tate Modern in both Liverpool and London, I can safely say that it is actually better than some of the garbage hanging on the walls in those museums that was painted by human beings.

This is yet another example of how mad the art world has become. Everybody likes art but now what seems to have happened is that these nutcases are thinking even more outside the box in their quest to appear intelligent and cultured, praising pictures painted by other species and, presumably, trying to get into the heads of the giant wrinkly pachyderms that painted them.

To those pseudo-intellectual fuckwits, I have this to say.

IT’S AN ELEPHANT! 

IT’S A BLOODY ELEPHANT! 

THE POOR CREATURE WANTS TO USE HIS TRUNK FOR FEEDING HIMSELF, GIVING HIMSELF A SHOWER AND SNIFFING HIS OWN BALLS. 

HE DOES NOT WANT A CRUEL PERSON EXPLOITING HIM BY MAKING HIM HOLD A PAINTBRUSH SO THAT YOU CAN  PONTIFICATE ABOUT WHAT THE UNFORTUNATE ANIMAL WAS THINKING WHEN  HE WAS FORCED TO COVER A PIECE OF PAPER WITH PAINT. 

YOU ARE A BLOODY IDIOT!

The people behind this enterprise are really clever and I am amazed that there are pseudo-intellectuals actually thick enough to be conned into buying this shit.

There is always somebody out there trying to exploit stupidity and, to me, this is just another example.

It’s crazy. But it’s worse than that! Paintings by other creatures are available to buy.

I kid you not!

So what other these other animals paint?

I promise that I am not making this up. 

You can buy paintings by turtles, tortoises, snakes, skinks, cheetahs, tigers, jaguars, gorillas, orangutans, chimps, grasshoppers, worms, millipedes, sea lions, penguins, rhinos, hippos, dolphins and whales.

In the case of the smaller creatures that cannot hold a brush, they have to have their bodies or at least parts of their bodies, dipped in paint before making then slither or crawl along the canvas.

I would love to see what happens if a tiger suddenly objected to being forced to paint.

YOU WANT ME TO DO WHAT???????????

It also makes me wonder about copyright. Surely a painting is owned by the artist, not the person that is forcing the poor creature to apply paint to canvas in such a humiliating way. Could Nua On challenge me if I were to reproduce his art on my blog? No doubt there is a lawyer out there who would try to take me court, saying that his elephant rights are being violated and exploited by a ruthless blogger.

The more I delve into the world of contemporary art, the more amazed I am about how absurd it is. They never cease to amaze me with new conceptual ideas for the pseudo-intellectual community to preach about.

The madness of art is exploding exponentially.

Still, at least if you are a philosopher, you can be happy in the knowledge that your wise words will be taken completely out of context by a moron trying by using them to describe the thoughts of an elephant as he splashed paint onto a big slice of paper.

I’m not a philosopher by any means but I am thinking about starting my own contemplative genre of that discipline, dedicating my own words to help pseudo-intellectuals to gush over artwork created by humans and animals alike.

Taking this a step further, I might actually consider being the agent for my cats, encouraging them to dabble in the world of modern art so that I can exploit pseudo-intellectuals and make myself - er sorry - my cats very rich.

That may not be such a good idea because either the cats would rip my hands off or, more likely, Mrs PM would beat me to a pulp.

So, Nua On, you are safe from the challenge of cat art for now. But I will write a few quotes for the pseudo-intellectuals to use to describe your work. 

I can’t wait to read your biography!

The Meaning of Life - Paint It Black

In 2013, I watched a funny programme starring Karl Pilkington called The Moaning of Life, where he travelled the world seeking inspiration for the meaning of life in key areas, such as happiness, kids and death.

Karl Pilkington is a straight talking funny man whose perception of life in general is rather weird, so weird in fact that he is genuinely funny. The show inspired me to write about the meaning of life from my own perspective mirroring the subjects tackled by Karl.

This is the man at is weirdest best - simply trying to promote the book accompanying the first series:

See what I mean? He can't even talk about his book without flying off at weird tangents.

Anyway, now he’s back with a second series where he continues to give us his view of life with new subjects. Again I have decided to join in and offer my views on the same subject.

The first post discusses something that I have mentioned before (and ranted about):

Art

Regular readers may consider me to be an unsophisticated barbarian when it comes to the arts, mainly because I have written a few posts about my views on contemporary art, the people who produce this art and the people who claim to understand and appreciate it.

These people are wrong.

It’s true that I am a stubborn old git but my opinions on art are just my own. While I may mock the pieces of crap that hang on the walls of museums of contemporary art, I genuinely have praise for paintings and sculptures that, in my opinion, say something to the world.

For example, I love paintings of real things,, such as landscapes, oceans, storms and sunsets, particularly if these images have been captured in the past. I find that they give me an insight into life back then and I can imagine the painter sitting in the English countryside, using his skill to capture a specific moment in time for future generations to enjoy.

Here’s an example or two by J.M.W.Turner:

These are fantastic paintings.

I feel rather sorry for J.M.W. Turner to be honest because, sadly, his name has been used (or should I say abused) in modern times. His name has been given to an annual contemporary art competition that genuinely makes me wonder about the sanity and intelligence of certain elements of my nation. 

The Turner Prize is awarded to a so-called visionary young artist (under the age of 50 – so its ageist as well) for their new works of art.

However, the art is utter nonsense. In fact, it’s worse than that – it’s absolutely shit!

The Turner Prize shows everything that is wrong with art. These days, it has been captured and held captive by the pseudo-intellectual brigade, who refuse to accept genuine art because, in their words:

“It’s been done before!”

I could vomit in a bucket, throw the contents onto a canvas, empty the contents of a filthy cat litter tray on top of that, spread it around with a garden rake, throw in a few packets of cat food for good measure, leave it to dry and then hang it up on a wall with the title “Cat Chores Gone Wrong” and I am sure that some pillock out there in the world of contemporary art would start gushing over it, claiming it to be:

“The most exciting cosmic, trans-species interactive amalgamation in the myriad multiverses”.

I might just do that, actually!

But of course, art is really any form and while I may mock a pseudo-intellectual, I am certain that he has his reasons for spouting pseudo-philosophical crap about a vomit stain hanging on a wall.

I find beauty in many other art forms, such as music, video and the wonders of Mother Nature. To be perfectly honest, I prefer photography to painting, simply because when a camera captures an image, it is real. In the minute moment that a camera clicks, a picture of a moment is preserved, whether it is a moment of beauty or tragedy. 

For me, like a Turner landscape, we have captured a moment in time that can be preserved for our future generations to enjoy, contemplate or simply fantasize about. 

I would love a person from two hundred years in the future to see a photograph that I had taken and just spend a few moments trying to imagine what was going on at the time. 

Another art form that is close to my heart is music. Music is personal and, like a photograph, can have a special meaning for a person. I still maintain that a catalogue of personal music can act as a unique time machine for a person. Whenever I hear certain songs, my mind searches my memory banks for a specific moment, selects it and brings into my thoughts so that I can relive what is probably a cherished memory, either of a specific instance or a special month or year.

In that respect, music gives meaning to life and the good thing about music is that, like a fantastic statue, a beautiful photograph or an oil painting of an ancient landscape, we can think about our lives, past lives, history and the future all at the same time.

I’m not sure that a vomit stain hanging in the Tate Gallery would have such a profound effect.

I’ll leave you with two songs from my vast collection that are very special to me for reasons that I may elaborate on in future posts:

How about you, dear reader. 

Are you a fan of art?

What art do you enjoy?

Do you think that a lot of contemporary art is rubbish?

What does "art" mean to you?

The Poet

I was tempted to call this post Poetry is Rubbish.

The truth is that generally I find what’s known as serious poetry genuinely is rubbish, a sort of pseudo-intellectual bullshit similar to contemporary art.

Contemporary artists use paint, bricks, unmade beds or in some cases absolutely nothing to appeal to pseudo-intellectuals, inspiring them to wax lyrical about what the painting says to them, using quotes from philosophers and basically talking nonsense to make themselves seem to be more clever than the rest of us.

Some poets do exactly the same – but with words instead of weird materials.

When I was at school, my English teacher forced me to write a critical essay comparing two poems about horses. I read them both and didn’t understand a bloody word. I didn’t trust my English teacher, a man who had forced me to read The Mayor of Casterbridge (arguably the worst book I have ever read) and hailed William Shakespeare as a kind of modern genius (read my post Shakespeare is Rubbish  for my thoughts on the bard).

I was tempted to write the shortest critical essay ever:

The poems are both about horses and they are both rubbish.

Instead, I pretended to be a pseudo-intellectual and wrote a load of old horseshit (pardon the pun). Guess what? I got a good grade and that essay helped me to pass my O-Level English Literature. Incidentally, I had to write essays about William Shakespeare’s plays and The Mayor of Casterbridge as well.

My only conclusion is that all you have to do succeed in English Literature is pretend to be a pseudo-intellectual.

I stand by this.

In fact, I once wrote a poem on this very blog. The poem was proof that anybody can devolve into a pseudo-intellectual and, with the aid of a dictionary and thesaurus, can come up with any old rubbish.

Here for your pleasure (or otherwise) that poem entitled The Loquacious Figment:

I contemplated the torso of a despondent galactic masterpiece

And my heart thanked my voracious sight.

I hastened my swiftness, disoriented by my awareness

Yet somehow did not submit to fright.

It’s utter garbage. Don’t let anybody tell you any different. It took me about two minutes to write.

If there is anybody who thinks it is good, then let me know and I will write an entire book filled with this kind of nonsense and – perhaps – make some money out of it.

Yeah right!!!!

Anyway, you are probably wondering why I decided not to call this post Poetry is Rubbish. The truth is that there are poems out there that I actually quite like. These are usually silly limericks, puerile nonsense and, most importantly of all, the works of terrific songwriters.

Songs are simply poems put to music and I have some terrific thought-provoking songs in my collection that can stand alone as poetry.

Here are some examples of silly little limericks:

A stupid young man from Crewe

Once decided to build a canoe.

When out on the river

He found, with a shiver, 

He’d forgot to use waterproof glue

A funny young fellow named Perkins

Was terribly fond of small gherkins.

One day after tea

He ate ninety three

And pickled his internal workings.

I have also written poetry for a couple of friends on their birthdays. Here’s an example (with the names changed to protect the guilty):

A new decade's upon you; it's your 50th today.

The little hair that you have left will soon be turning grey.

You still play squash and cycle, to cling onto your youth.

But soon your muscles will give way, along with every tooth.

And when your gums are toothless (and chewing is a chore)

The only food you'll manage will be sucked up through a straw.

You take your lady dancing (Mimi is her name)

But believe me, waltzing's tricky when you use a zimmer frame.

Your pension is approaching more quickly than you think.

But forget that for the moment - we'll buy you lots of drink

To wish you HAPPY BIRTHDAY and, if I may be so bold,

To make sure you remember, Bill, that you are VERY OLD.

Now I’m over fifty myself, I think that might have hurt.

Moving on to songs, I think that the words can be almost as powerful as the music itself. In some cases, the words actually elevate a song for me. Here are some examples:

Rush – Nobody’s Hero

Dream Theater – The Answer Lies Within

I can only conclude therefore that poetry is not rubbish, only those pretentious poems seemingly auto-generated from a dictionary.

Well, I feel inspired to write another on for you, dear reader. Picture the scene. I have opened my browser and have begun looking for quotes from celebrated philosophers. I am devolving into a pseudo-intellectual.

I am now an arrogant smartarse who is looking down on the world. My inspiration is complete. In the words of Plato:

“The beginning is the most important part of the work”.

I present to you: The Enigmatic Equation:

The imperceptible formula, cloaked in derangement,

Struggles to reveal its worth.

Yet the analyst blindly persists in frustration

Anticipating its Caesarian birth 

What a load of gibberish. I hope you agree.

Over to you, dear reader.

Do you like poetry?

If so, does all of it make sense to you? Am I just being thick?

Do song lyrics inspire you?

I Just Don't Get It

Regular readers will know that I have a soapbox that I get out occasionally to air my views and rant about things that I find disturbing, objectionable or just simply wrong. However, for this post, I don’t want to get my soapbox out. I want to understand. And I am hoping that there are readers out there who will help me.

I will try not to rant, I promise.

There are certain things in life that I just don’t get. I am fifty years old and I reckon I have a reasonably sensible and well-balanced view on the world. Nevertheless, I find myself looking at certain aspects of life on this planet and shake my head in disbelief at why they are so popular or why they even exist at all.

Am I stupid? Don’t answer that question.

I am going to offer you, dear reader, ten things that make me wonder whether the human race is devolving rather than evolving. And if you are one of those people who champion the things I am about to discuss, please, please, PLEASE tell me why I shouldn’t get on my soapbox and start bellowing about them in future posts.

I will try to be brief.

Sex Addiction

I am a man and I know that over the years I have thought about sex an awful lot – almost constantly in fact. Men do that – they can’t help it. Yet I have to chuckle when certain celebrities have had to undergo therapy for a condition called sex addiction simply because they are so famous that they cannot control the voice of their little fella when his brain alerts him to a woman who has breasts, legs and a pretty face.

Most men look at women and their little fella offers an opinion about whether she is worthy as a mate. To the majority of men, such thoughts are lost in an ocean of other external stimulae and warrant only a verbal exclamation, particularly those men who have a woman already.

“She’s nice,” you hear guys say. The more outspoken ones will suggest a more lurid scenario and single guys may even act on their urges, driven by the need to procreate, by actually trying to chat them up. Yet we find celebrities who simply cannot control their urges and whose little fella is the boss, complaining after having been caught out, that they suffer from sex addiction and, in order to save face, go into therapy to explain why they can’t keep their little fella in his place.

Do me a favour! I think it is an excuse to make people feel sorry for them after been unfaithful. Obviously a celebrity will attract members of the opposite sex.

Just keep your pecker in his cage!

Train Spotting

Why on earth would anybody have an urge to stand on a rainy railway platform with a little book and a pen and mark off the numbers of locomotives as they trundle past? Why would they do it for hours on end? I wouldn’t mind if each locomotive was unique – they aren’t. Most of them are the bloody same!

“Wow – I saw a train!”

How bloody interesting!

Cult of Celebrity

Why are people interested in celebrity gossip, particularly when the so-called celebrity in question is famous for nothing more than being outrageous on television. If you ask me, this obsession with celebrities who deserve no more than a passing thought is damaging people.

You see it whenever a reality show appears on television.  An absolute nobody is instantly turned into an overnight celebrity because they did something disgraceful and acquired an army of fans who are so shallow that they live vicariously through these sad attention seekers.

I just don’t get it. I can’t understand why I should be bothered about a young idiot who gets drunk and makes an arse of himself on a programme like Geordie Shore.

Scientology

I have been tempted to write a post about the cult of Scientology and I may still do this in future. I was once
almost enrolled in this cult as a young impressionable student (read about it here). When you look into Scientology you can forgive yourself for thinking “WHAT THE PHARRRRKKK?” 

Famous celebrities like Tom Cruise have paid a fortune to rise up the hierarchy and it is all based on the imagination of science fiction writer L.Ron Hubbard a controversial character at best. 

Why would anyone with wealth even consider joining this cult? You may as well just set fire to your cash.

Modern Jazz

Modern Jazz musicians are extremely good at playing their chosen musical instruments. The problem for me is that when they get together to play a song, while they all play their own self-indulgent parts brilliantly, it appears as if they are all playing totally different tunes. 

The result is a total dirge.

Readers of my last post will recall that I love progressive rock. However, one of my favourite champions of the genre, Steven Wilson, has introduced a touch of jazz into his latest solo albums (mainly because his band, like me, can’t stand jazz). 

I don’t play those songs – they are not my cup of tea at all.

Contemporary Art

Regular readers will know about my hatred for modern art. I simply do not get it. I do not understand how random slops of paint on a canvas with the title “My Alien Colostomy Bag” can drive anybody to say anything other than “Let’s burn this piece of excrement!”

The best justification I heard for the bizarre way in which art has migrated straight down the toilet made me rant mercilessly for days.

I said: “Why doesn’t anybody paint pictures any longer instead of gluing bits of metal together and calling it something like “Living Vomit”?"

The lady in question said: “It’s been done – that’s so last century!”

Rant? You would not believe how that poor woman suffered for her art.

Tattoos

When I recently saw a photo of David Beckham my first thought was “What the pharrk has he done to his body?”.

Why would anybody deface their own body with tattoos? They are so permanent and, certainly in the UK on a canvas of pale white skin like mine, they look awful. It’s like a form of modern art (see above). Are you going to tell me that anybody who has covered body in shocking blue colours isn’t going to examine their sagging skin when they are older and say “I wish I hadn’t had a picture of a dragon eating a huge banana scrawled on my belly!”

Why? 

Poetry

I love it when people use their imagination to put words on paper in a way that is beautiful and thought provoking.; yet poetry can be utterly ridiculous. I’m not talking about song lyrics, rhymes and funny limerick style pieces – I’m talking about the artistic pretentious rubbish where people put together  random words and the reader has to make sense out of it. In many ways it’s like modern art – appealing to pseudo intellectuals and nobody else. 

Here’s a poem, written by me, that is shit! Some people may read this and say "genius” – please don’t tell them I ate a dictionary, spat out words in random order and put them together to produce this utter mess:

I contemplated the torso of a despondent galactic masterpiece

And my heart thanked my voracious sight.

I hastened my swiftness, disoriented by my awareness

Yet somehow did not submit to fright.

I call it The Loquacious Figment.

And I say to you now, dear reader – if you think it is brilliant then I have to break it to you that you are indeed a pseudo intellectual and I look forward to your explanation of why it is so good as well as the philosophical quotes that support your argument.

Rest assured that this is a one off and I won't be filling this blog with crap poetry.

Outrageous Fashion

Why? Who on earth wears clothes that, at best, can be described as utterly ridiculous? And why are these people willing to pay a bloody fortune for it?

Justin Bieber

Where do I begin with this … this … (careful Dave!) pop star? It seems to me that a fair percentage of the female population have taken leave of their senses and been mesmerised by this young lad. I wouldn’t mind if he were modest about his success. 

He’s not.

He’s one of the most arrogant egotistical celebrities out there. What does he call his fans? Beliebers? I am not a violent person but the more I hear about his escapades, the more I want to give him a hearty slap.

And his music is shit too!

And finally…

Please understand, dear reader, that when it comes to certain topics, I am totally thick. If anybody can explain why any of the ten things above are worthy of my attention in anyway, I will be most grateful.

And I apologise – my soapbox did make an appearance (or ten)!

The Pseudo-Intellectual's New Clothes

I have just read something that has made me rant mercilessly to Mrs PM and the cats. In order to escape me, Mrs PM has left the house and the cats have run to those little hidey holes in the house that are Plastic Mancunian proof (behind their litter trays).

I need to let off steam, so unfortunately, dear reader, you are my metaphorical punch bag to allow me to get this off my chest.

Regular readers will know that I have a big problem with pseudo-intellectuals, particularly those who love contemporary art and accuse me of being an unimaginative moron who lives in a box.

I have posted about such buffoons before (read about it here and here) but yesterday, I read something that takes this to an even more ridiculous level.

There is an exhibition about to start at the Hayward Gallery in London that will “set imaginations on fire”.

I can guess that you might consider this to be an intellectually challenging exhibition featuring the most amazing new pieces of contemporary art that will quite literally blow you away in a cascading and exponentially developing miracle of thought-provoking rapture (sorry about that, dear reader – I stole those words from a pseudo-intellectual who had just looked up the words cascade, exponential, miracle and rapture on a web site about philosophy).

The cost of this exhibition is £8, a paltry sum, I’m sure you will agree, for something that will give your imagination the mental equivalent of a screaming orgasm.

What do you get for your £8?

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Nada! Nichts! Rien! Niente!

BUGGER ALL!!!

Yes, that’s right; the world of contemporary art has stooped to depths lower than even a total cynic like me could imagine.

They are exhibiting NOTHING!!

Allow me to elaborate.

You will see Invisible Sculpture, a “work” by Andy Warhol; an empty plinth, which, apparently, the man stepped on for a brief moment.

You can also feast your eyes on 1000 Hours of Staring; a blank piece of paper (yes you read that correctly – A BLANK PIECE OF PAPER) that the artist, a certain Mr Tom Friedman, stared at on and off for a period of five years.

The same artist has another exhibit and I’ll bet you can barely contain yourself about this one. It is called Untitled (A Curse) and features an empty space which has supposedly been cursed by a witch. That’s right, dear reader – AN EMPTY SPACE!!

How about an empty room by Yoko Ono, where the viewer is encouraged to “conjure up artwork in their minds”? I’m sorry but the blogging equivalent of that is for me to post something called Nothing and let you, dear reader, imagine more of my inane bullshit. Surely that’s MY job as a blogger.

It sounds like a complete joke – but they are serious – totally and utterly serious.

The director of the gallery has said (and I am not making this up): 

“I think visitors will find that there is plenty to see and experience in this exhibition of invisible art”.

He also added: 

“From the amusing to the philosophical, you will be able to explore an invisible labyrinth that only materialises as you move around it, see an artwork that has been created by the artist staring at it for 1000 hours, walk through an installation designed to evoke the afterlife, and be in the presence of Andy Warhol’s celebrity aura.”

Yes – this pseudo-intellectual mad man actually uttered those words to a national newspaper. And, of course, he had to mention philosophy (what pseudo-intellectual nonsense would be complete without the word philosophy?)

The world has gone crazy; totally and utterly crazy. If this is supposed to be the height of intellect in the world then we, as a species, are doomed.

MY CATS HAVE MORE SENSE THAN THESE PEOPLE.

Actually, that’s not true. The people who will undoubtedly flock to this so-called exhibition are the pseudo-intellectual fools. I could get the same experience staring at my wall and unleashing my sick and sordid imagination to picture an epic war occurring on the plaster.

And it wouldn’t cost me a bloody thing.

The traditional story of The Emperor’s New Clothes has never been more relevant to the rubbish that most modern art is. The parallels are there for everybody to see.

I am almost tempted to gate-crash the exhibition and stand there in every room stating the bleeding obvious.

“There is nothing here. There is nothing worth seeing. There is actually nothing to see. This is an empty room.”

Alternatively, I could pay my £8 and walk in totally naked and say “What do you think of my new outfit? It is straight from the imagination of Rene Descartes; it’s called the Invisible Suit”. 

Would they DARE to throw me out?

I could even charge them for their own set of Descartes clothes - £500 a pop. Do you think I’ll get away with it?

I’ll finish with some good news; I have created for you a piece of invisible art that will save you from going to the exhibition. It is in the frame below and it is simply called The Pseudo-Intellectual’s New Clothes.

And it costs exactly what it shows.

NOTHING!!!!

The Pseudo-Intellectual

I talk crap sometimes.

What do you mean “I know”?

I may talk crap, but there is one thing I can definitely say with my hand on my heart – I am not a pseudo-intellectual. Why? Because when I am wrong and when I am stupid, I openly admit it. Furthermore, I don’t try to impress people with ideas that are not my own and I try my best not to use words that have been hastily looked up in a dictionary to impress people.

What is a pseudo-intellectual then?

I’ve mentioned them in this blog before. In my view, a pseudo-intellectual is somebody who tries to act and speak as if they are cultured, intelligent and understand everything about everything, usually using words and phrases that are not used in everyday speech. And of course, they are not intellectual at all. Worse, they actually look down on people like me.

The finest examples of pseudo-intellectuals are found in the art world but they exist everywhere.

Next time you are in a contemporary art gallery try and spot them; it’s easy.

Firstly they are dressed in a weird way and walk around with a crafted intelligent expression that, to the untrained eye, makes them look weird and eccentric but, in their eyes, they are intelligence personified.

The good news is that you can expose them quite easily.

When you see such a person staring intently at a totally irrelevant piece of art just stand next to them and ask the simple question:

“What does it say to you?”

In their mind they will immediately start up the bullshit generator, searching out phrases that they have remembered to express their supposedly intellectual opinions. You will hear something like:

“It speaks to me on a kinetic level; the energy of the piece distorts the magnificence of everything else, almost in a primeval, carnivorous vortex of cybernetic passion. It arouses me.”

Resist the temptation to say “What on earth are you talking about?”

You could expose them easily enough by asking “Do you even know what kinetic means? And what is a carnivorous vortex when it’s at home?”

Or you could have some fun.

Pretend to be thick yet fascinated by their bullshit – and they simply get worse. For example, they will start to quote philosophers.

“Wow! You know your stuff, my friend! You’re so clever!”

“Yes, wasn’t it Hippocrates who said What is a friend? A friend is a single soul dwelling in two bodies! It’s so apt, don’t you think?”

The more you praise them the worse they get.

Others look to culture and embrace opera, ballet and other such dreadful pursuits. I once went to an opera to see what all the fuss was about – it was bloody awful.

It went something like this:

Opera Singer 1: I’m going to kill her.

Opera Singer 2: No, don’t kill her.

Opera Singer 1: I’m going to kill her.

Opera Singer 2: No, don’t kill her.

Opera Singer 1: I’m going to kill her.

Opera Singer 2: No, don’t kill her.

Opera Singer 1: Yes I must and I will.

Opera Singer 2: No you won’t.

Opera Singer 1: Yes I will.

Opera Singer 2: No you won’t.

I felt like screaming “For the sake of my sanity – just make your bloody mind up!!”

I have no doubt that if I had, a pseudo-intellectual would have rounded on me and started quoting philosophy to prove I am a cultureless dolt.

I’ve had arguments with these people on a couple of occasions. They assume that I am totally stupid simply because the pursuits I choose to embrace are not, in their view, intellectually stimulating. They, of course, are wrong.

Now I hate to blow my own trumpet, but I regard myself as a pretty intelligent bloke. I have a degree and I work in IT so there must be some intellect in that skull of mine. My problem is that I am slightly geeky, a little nerdy, somewhat weird and very opinionated. And that winds pseudo-intellectuals up very easily.

Take for example the subject of music.

Pseudo–intellectuals regard rock music as the spawn of Satan himself. They assume that because I am a fan of rock guitar that I have no taste and therefore should not be allowed to comment on music.

I have had debates with genuinely clever people about our musical differences and in those cases we have a fun chat, agreeing on some things and disagreeing on others. However, the pseudo–intellectual whose clichéd view of rock is that only devil worshippers love it have absolutely no clue.

They do not acknowledge the genius of guitarists like Joe Satriani, the song writing skills of Rush and Dream Theater, the intelligence of bands like Judas Priest and Iron Maiden.

To them, intellectuals only like classical music and opera – and anything else is followed by brainless idiots. In their eyes, I like rock ergo I am thick.

When it comes to art, the same thing applies – I don’t understand why somebody would pay a million pounds for a canvas that has random bits of vomit splashed around on it and they assume that I am thick because of that.

Movies and books are another area where the pseudo-intellectual thrives. They choose only to read books that are reviewed in the Sunday Times, saying that anything else is beneath them. The fact that most of these books are dreadful anyway is irrelevant.

It’s the same with films. Somebody, a pseudo-intellectual, once recommended that I watch the film “Eyes Wide Shut”. “You’ll love it,” he said. “It is the epitome of post-modern erotica and Kubrick’s finest work to date. It penetrates your psyche on a subtle intellectual level that transcends the abnormal odyssey of the perverted masses.”

I should have known. His review of it should have made alarm bells ring in my head. I should have said “What on Earth are you talking about you babbling bullshitter?”

I was foolish. I watched it.

And I can tell you now that my review of the film is simple. Here it is – brace yourself.

IT IS SHIT!

So beware the pseudo-intellectual folks. Beware the person who uses a hundred words when one will do. Beware the person who criticises your musical taste because you don’t listen to Bach. Beware the buffoon who tries to quote Aristotle to you. Beware the person who chuckles when standing in front of a pile of cat’s puke on a canvas and says “You simply don’t get it because you simply can’t grasp the concept of retro-physical potential in an academic vacuum that procreates despondency while at the same time expanding personal karma in a futuristic yet nihilistic orgy of barbaric crescendo.”

And most of all – beware anybody who tells you that this piece of crap below, that I produced for a previous post, is in fact art.

Use Your Imagination

I’m in the wrong job. Why? Because quite frankly, I feel that I could be a contemporary artist.

Don’t laugh – it’s true.

I was in London at the weekend, visiting friends and on Sunday afternoon, we strolled along the south bank of the Thames, enjoying the atmosphere. We came to the Tate Modern, a museum full of contemporary art. Against my initial better judgement, we decided to pop in and have a look.

The first thing that I saw was an incredible piece of art called How It Is by a Polish artist called Miroslaw Balka. Basically is a huge steel box measuring 30 metres long, 10 metres wide and 13 metres deep. Why is it incredible? Because you can go inside the box and there is absolutely no light in there whatsoever.

It is slightly disconcerting as you step inside because you see people on their way out and they are almost completely in shadow. The further you get, the more eerie it becomes because, as you approach the back wall, you see absolutely nothing and eventually stumble into the wall, thankfully covered in a soft felt-type material. As you leave, you see others coming in and that too is strange, mainly because they are groping ahead and are unsure of what they are seeing ahead of them.

You can see and read about it here.

I enjoyed it - in a weird kind of way.

From what you have read so far, you may think that I am a fan of contemporary art; you are wrong.

How it is was a novel experience and I was mildly amused by it, which meant that Mrs PM and our friends didn’t have to listen to me ranting about how useless it was.

However, I soon degenerated into my old self as we explored one of the upper floors of the Tate Modern.

I have never seen such a load of old codswallop in my entire life. As we strolled through the galleries on one of the floors, I marvelled at the audacity of the artists who, somehow, managed to convince art critics and pseudo-intellectuals that the crap hanging up was worthy of even a passing glimpse. I honestly feel that I could have done a much better job.

Basically, the bulk of the “work” was abstract daubs of paint, presumably created when the artist was high on glue or so leathered on absinthe that he was out of his tiny mind.

“I just don’t get it,” I complained to Mrs PM, keeping my voice down so that others couldn’t hear. “If you gave me a blank canvas and a tin of red paint, I could paint something exactly like that,” I said, pointing to what can only be described as a large mess on the wall.

One painting I saw was a bright red canvas with a very thin brown line at the end. That was it. A child could have produced it. I was stunned by some of the bilge I saw.

Of course, the crowd admiring the rot on the walls was mixed; some, like me, walked around with looks of pure confusion on their faces, as if they walked into a world were insane people were suddenly sane; others pretended to admire the works; the final group, the eccentrics, actually discussed the works using bizarre language. One guy was wearing a pair of drainpipe jeans that were about six inches too short, and a grey jacket with a vivid pink feather attached to his lapel. His hair was wild and he gawked at the paintings with the look of a child in a sweet factory. He was pursued by an odd looking female with a permanent grin on her face.

In one room, full of abstract oil paintings, a European tour guide was attempting to explain the paintings. Out of sheer curiosity I stood nearby to listen to what he was saying. It went something like this:

The artist has resolved to forego the concept of creating a reproduction of an object in favour of the abstract. The paradigm behind these spectacular works of art is to compel the viewer to form an idea in his head and to extrapolate that idea until it stands out and announces itself to him. Different people will obviously see different things; that is why it is a work of pure genius. Every single human being on the planet will perceive a distinct and unique entity or idea as they study the painting and become part of it. The viewer will step across the barrier into a world that only he can conceive; a world that speaks only to him; a world that is disturbing, yet at the same time exciting; a world that is unique and like no other place in the imagination of any other human being. It is a concept of humanity, yet a uniquely individual creation. Magnificent isn’t it?

I wanted to go up to the guy and say:

“It’s SHIT!!! It is absolutely dreadful. Give me a single day and a ton of oil paints and I can produce something like that. What are you talking about anyway? I’ve never heard such claptrap in my entire life.”

Of course, I said nothing.

However, one brave woman did challenge him with the simple words:

“I don’t understand what you mean.”

His reply:

Yes, it can be confusing. To see a world that you alone can create in the vast cosmos of your imagination can be overwhelming. Let’s move on.

Fearing that she would look stupid, she didn’t press him further. He would have made more sense saying:

There is a planet in a distant galaxy where cats filter coffee and wash their carts with it. Did you know that stones are multicoloured in the imagination of a stag beetle? I know; I’ve been there and challenged slugs to play cricket against giant aliens on Sunday afternoons in January. The sun flies through our hearts trailing jelly behind it.

The final straw for me was a video display. As we approached the room I was intrigued by a sign that warned us about “sexually explicit images and violence”.

A voice in my head warned: DON’T GO IN DAVE! IT WILL BE UTTER BILGE!

I ignored the voice.

In the room I found five projectors playing five different films next to each other. The first film showed a naked person with a disturbing mask, jumping up and down over and over again. Next to that, a naked lady lay on a bed as a pair of hands smeared, what looked like sauce all over her naked form. In a third film, a semi-naked man, pounded objects, as if in a fit of rage. I couldn't bear to watch the other two films.

I wanted to cry out in despair. It was possibly the worst thing I had ever seen. It was tasteless and pointless. If that was art then I am a jellyfish. It was dreadful. It was awful. It was rubbish. It was garbage. It was meaningless twaddle. It was totally useless. It was painful. It was a complete waste of the two minutes it took for me to endure it. It was the most pointless two minutes of my entire life. It was shit. It was a waste of a room. It was a waste of electricity. There was no talent there whatsoever. It was devoid of aptitude. Genius it was not. I hated it. I despised it. I detested it.

Do you understand how I felt about it or am I being too subtle?

What particularly annoyed me about it, was the fact that the artist was probably absolutely loaded and had somehow convinced somebody somewhere to allow him to display this tacky piece of nonsense for people like me to see.

I felt cheated. I felt soiled.

I was bloody annoyed.

As we left, I ranted to Mrs PM and decided that I could (and possibly should) seek out a new career as a contemporary artist. If I can persuade some pseudo-intellectual idiot somewhere that my totally useless pieces of art are worthy of display in the Tate Modern, I can live the rest of my life laughing at those dumb enough to try to explain my worthless crap to people who are stupid enough to believe them.

I’ve made a start.

Below are two pieces of work that I think will challenge people, intellectually and physically.

The first, I have called Naughty Cat and, although it is not an abstract piece, I hope that it challenges you to explore the inner child within. As you contemplate the feline indiscretion, consider you own innocent childhood and the feeling of naughtiness as you knowingly misbehaved.



The second, I have called Plastic Man, which is a portrait and urges you to confront the repulsiveness of the human form. The pathetic creature portrayed in the piece is disturbing not only because the person in the picture is quite clearly plastic; he is also the human form of a baboon.



Yes – it is me! Don’t laugh!!

Do you think I should give up my day job?

The Beast Within

In a restaurant last week, I ordered a bottle of wine. The waiter dutifully delivered a £30 bottle of rioja, opened it and poured a tiny amount into my glass. As tradition and etiquette dictate, I obediently sipped the wine to relay to the waiter whether it was acceptable or not.

It was disgusting; I stood up, spat the wine all over the waiter’s white jacket and screamed:

“This is revolting! How dare you charge £30 for this bottle of rocket fuel.”.

I snatched the bottle from the stunned waiter and poured it over his head.

I didn’t really. In fact, I didn’t even go to a restaurant last week. However, I would love to have the courage to do just that; refuse a bottle of expensive wine because the taste is not worthy of the asking price.

Furthermore, there are numerous other things I would love to do if only I had the audacity.

The beast within me needs to be totally constrained as does the mischievous imp. I long to unleash these dark sides of my personality on people who wind me up; I feel like Bruce Banner containing the Hulk within. The urge to unleash the beast and vent my fury on people who anger me is sometimes overwhelming. And sometimes I can barely contain the mischievous imp who yearns to conquer arrogance and stupidity with suitable punishments.

Here are a few examples:

(1) You see lots of men with long hair. I can appreciate that, having had long hair myself. However, when men tie their long locks into a ponytail, it makes me cringe. It may look cool to some, but I hate the style personally – and sadly, I know people who do it. And what would I love to do to these guys? Cut the bloody ponytail off and then see the look of horror on their faces when they realise what’s happened. If I did have a pair of scissors, the urge to act would be overwhelming.

(2) At a football match, when a player dives and feigns injury, i.e. cheats, all I want to do is leap over the wall and stamp on the imaginary injury and say “NOW, you’re injured you cheating scumbag!”

(3) When stuck in a conversation with the world’s biggest bore, I usually listen attentively, nodding at the appropriate times and pretend that I’m interested in the plot intricacies of Coronation Street. If I were to unleash the beast I would say:

“For crying out loud – GET A LIFE! STOP BORING THE ARSE OFF ME AND TALK TO SOMEBODY WHO CARES!”

(4) Have you ever found yourself next to a loathsome businessman on an aircraft who sticks his elbows into your ribs as he attempts to eat, drinks huge quantities of wine and ends up disturbing you every twenty minutes to go to the loo, talks inane crap peppered with business buzzwords and phrases, is rude to the stewardesses and treats them like skivvies and then falls asleep facing you, breathing his stinking wine-breath into your face whilst snoring so loudly that it drowns out the engines? Well I have and let me tell you this: all I want to do is haul that man out of his seat, frogmarch him to the toilet, crowbar his massive belly into the cubicle and shout:

“STAY IN THERE, YOU FAT OBNOXIOUS GIT!”

(5) A female friend walks into the bar wearing the most awful outfit you have ever seen. Instead of saying:

“Wow, you look fantastic”

Don’t you sometimes want to just tell her the truth? Wouldn’t it be better to say:

“You’re dress looks like a warped garbage sack and your lipstick makes you look like a tart. Your hair's a bloody mess and your perfume is so overpowering I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve left a trail of dead cats in your wake. I’m sure it took you hours to get ready but, let me tell you this, love; I’d just go back and throw on something simple – you’d look much better.”

(6) Picture the scene; you’re at an art gallery standing in front of a work of art by a contemporary artist, described in the media as a visionary. The piece is basically a pile of bricks thrown at random and covered with various colours of paint and has random bric-brac glued to various bits of it (eggs, jelly, cat fur, dog poo, feathers, tar, broken crockery, soup, dolls furniture, used tissue, mud and bits of car). It is called something like “Adventures in the Platinum Void”.

Two art critics are standing next to you. One says:

“It’s fabulous! It captures the essence of existence in a manner that is, quite simply, breath-taking. I feel privileged to see this beautiful piece. I’m moved to tears. I am a voyeur from an existential plane. This piece is the work of genius.”

The other replies:

“I totally agree. This magnificent sculpture explains the meaning of so many philosophical taboos on a level that is deeper than the world’s best thinkers can ever imagine. The intensity of splendour is daunting; I am but a microbe in its presence. The power is overwhelming and I am wholly inadequate, yet totally enthralled.”

One of them turns to you and says:

“What do you think?”.

Wouldn’t you just love to say:

“This is total crap! The artist is a genius but only in the sense of being able to con you two pseudo intellectuals that it actually means something. I’m sure the artist is laughing all the way to the bank. You are a couple of morons with more money than sense.”

(7) Back in the restaurant, I’ve survived the wine incident and I’ve ordered the gourmet dish, described in great mouth-watering detail. The dish has a fancy French name (that probably means “dustbin slime”). The waiter, having brushed himself down and changed his jacket, presents me with my main course on a huge plate; there is barely enough to feed a gnat. The meal is so tiny that I need a microscope to see it. And I’ve paid £25 for this useless gruel. Instead of saying “Thanks!” I long to say:

“What the hell is this? How have you go the gall to charge £25 for food that would leave a goldfish demanding more?”

I’m sure he would run for cover if I threw the plate at him.

(8) You’re in a queue at the ticket office in a railway station and your train is due to depart. In front of you is a man who is so dim it’s a wonder he can get himself dressed up in the morning. He says:

“So what time’s the next train to Liverpool?” he says. “I need to get there by 5:30. It’s now 1.30 so that gives me a few hours. How long does it take? I’ve heard its 35 minutes; is that true? How much does it cost?”

Don’t you just want to grab the idiot and shout:

“THIS IS A TICKET OFFICE WHERE YOU BUY TICKETS. IT IS NOT A BLOODY INFORMATION DESK. MY TRAIN IS ABOUT TO LEAVE AND IF I MISS IT BECAUSE OF YOUR IDIOCY, I’M GOING TO COME BACK HERE AND SET FIRE TO YOUR TROUSERS!”

(9) Don’t you just want to turn up to X-Factor auditions with a large bottle of indelible ink in your pocket? Why would you do that, I hear you cry? Well, you could stand up in front of Simon Cowell and when he asks what you going to sing, simply run up to him and pour the entire contents of the bottle over his smug head.

(10) You’re in a pub with your beloved lady having a wonderfully fulfilling conversation over a pint of the landlord’s finest ale, when all of a sudden, the place fills up with young people out for the Saturday night cattle parade and the barman cranks up the background music so loudly that you can barely hear yourself think. Worse still, the music is rap, r’n’b or boy band/girl band fodder. Wouldn’t you just love to walk behind the bar, lift up the offending music machine and smash it to the floor? Even better – walk to the pub with the world’s most powerful ghetto blaster and as soon as the music is cranked up, retaliate by playing a Metallica CD at three times the volume?

I’m glad that’s off my chest. The post may make me appear to be a savage, bent on the destruction of all that annoys or irritates me but I’m not really. I can tolerate almost anything; whilst my inner turmoil in trying to contain the beast and imp within is a struggle of monumental proportions, my outward appearance is one of calm and polite acceptance – just as long as the wine tastes nice.

Art for art's sake

What is art?

I’ve asked myself this question over and over again and have yet to come up with an answer that satisfies me. Officially, the generic word “art” is used to encompass anything that is pleasing to the eye or the ear or invokes a deep sense of positive feeling within a person, be it a painting, a sculpture, a play, a story or a piece of music.

Before I crank up a gear, I am aware of the old adage that beauty is in the eye of the beholder and that different objects will summon a variety of emotions and feelings in different people. But I have to ask the question: Is it just me or are “contemporary artists” just extracting the urine?

Let me start with arguably the most controversial topic in modern art: the infamous Turner Prize.

The Turner Prize is named after Joseph Mallord William Turner, an Impressionist painter who died at the age of 74 in 1851, and was recognised as a talented artist. In his lifetime, he painted several masterpieces, including Eruption of Vesuvius, a truly magnificent image of the famous volcano exploding in all of its extraordinary fury as helpless people watch in astonishment and terror. When I look at the painting, I know exactly what I am witnessing; the imagery and colours combine to present a superb representation of the experience of the sheer ferocity of Mother Nature at her most destructive. I would happily hang it on my wall and stare at it with a positive feeling of awe and splendour.

Turner’s name is now part of history and naming a modern art prize after him is an honour and will help to preserve his name in the archives of history. The Turner Prize was first presented in 1984 and is a competition organized by the Tate gallery for what is loosely termed “visual” artists under the age of 50. In 2002, the prize money for winning this prestigious award was £40,000, not a sum to be sneezed at for a young contemporary artist.

You would expect the ghost of J.M.W. Turner to be delighted that his name has been given to arguably Britain’s most famous art competition. However, I don’t think he would be happy at all. In my opinion, Joseph Mallord William Turner, a truly talented artist, would turn in his grave if he saw the candidates for the prize.

The Turner prize raises the debate about art every single year that it is held. I would challenge any person who thought that he could define art to think again given the incredible pile of old crap that candidates submit for this award.

Let’s look at some of the pieces on offer:

"Mother and Child Divided", which basically featured a cow and a calf sliced into pieces and encapsulated in glass cases. I mean, COME ON! What sort of critic would call that a work of art? If you want to see a cow and her calf butchered why not go to a slaughter house and see it first hand?

This pile of crap is “critically acclaimed”, a phrase that so-called intellectuals use to try to convince ordinary people that what they are looking at is not actually two sliced carcasses but in a fact a meaningful and significant masterpiece.

Do me a favour. Anybody with half a brain can see that it is as disgusting a pile of crap as you would imagine it to be. For heaven’s sake IT’S TWO DEAD COWS!

But that’s not the worst one. What about “The Lights Going On And Off”, a “work of art” that consisted of an empty gallery in which two lights go on and off repeatedly. Has the world gone mad? I can reproduce that in any room in my house. How on earth can somebody con even a half wit that this is art?

And what about "My Bed"? This monstrosity was basically an unmade bed, complete with condoms, dirty knickers, stained sheets and piles of rubbish strewn around it. If that is art then frankly I give up.

To me, “work” like this is just the product of an experiment to see how far people can go, fooling the art world that they are a serious genius. To me it is the work of somebody who is pushing the limits of credibility. Sadly the people being targetted are gullible enough to love the products, even though to the majority of people these pieces really are worthy of nothing more than mockery.

It all goes to show that the so-called elite of the contemporary art world are not pushing the boundaries of art; they are merely pushing their luck to the point where they are taking the absolute piss. So many people can see it. A few people agree with me and yet pretend to “get it” so that they don’t appear to be thick in front of the in crowd of art critics.

In fact, in many ways, art critics and art experts are just as bad.

I recently watched a programme on BBC2 where an art correspondent walked through a modern art museum describing the pieces of detritus hanging on the wall in a series of words and phrases that defied logic and belief. One particular painting by Jackson Pollock consisted of a grey canvas with random splashes of colour, dripped onto it in random patterns. I would have described it in the following words:

“Pollock was obviously inebriated when he painted this piece. I would wager that he returned home from a bar, barely able to stand, and thought it would be a fantastic idea to throw a piece of canvas on the floor, open five pots of paint and pour the contents onto the canvas whilst giggling inanely.”

An art critic or expert would describe this painting in the most wonderful phrases, attempting to put himself inside Pollock’s head as the artist expressed his deepest fears and neuroses in an abstract model of pure expressionism that brought to life his innermost feelings and displayed them in a way that his public would identify with; of course the random splashes of red would represent his misguided anger at the unfairness and complexity of life; the black sprinkles would represent his fear as he tries to take control of the rage and succumb to its raw energy; the yellow trails of paint would symbolize hope that he could extract himself from the depths of despair and finally the blues and greens would signify the beauty of nature and life. The miasma of colours would be the struggle to exist and any philosopher would immediately identify Pollock as a true visionary who had captured the struggles of life in a single picture and force us all to contemplate where we are coming from, what our purpose is in life and how we are ultimately going to prevail despite the forces combating each other to prevent us.

WHAT A LOAD OF OLD BULL DROPPINGS!

Don’t be fooled. Art critics think they are intellectual and that the rest of us are neanderthals with no sense of understanding. Don’t be fooled and don’t listen to them. It is they who are the gullible fools and the contemporary artists are nothing short of conmen who extract vast quantities of cash from these so called intellectuals by pushing the limits of ludicrousness as far as they can go.

I suppose in that respect they could be called geniuses; only most of us are not fooled.