Author: albarclay

I’m knackered.

The weather Gods are kind though.

I was working outside all afternoon and I arrived in an absolute rainstorm. Somehow it all stopped and sunshine happened for a tiny patch. Then back undercover in time for the storm.

I was driving from home up to Hampstead when the heavens opened. Lightning storms so active I was very happy that I have big tyres on Bergman. I’ve driven through many storms, and many that are worse than the storm tonight. But usually I’m not about to take a bunch of people out onto the heath. I worried tonight when I couldn’t see the road markings.

I got as far as The Freemasons, and ordered myself a trio roast which I then tried to persuade Chris to eat some of from the other side of the plate. Time was ticking on. And somehow the rain eased off.

We gathered all the seekers. The dark was closing in. We broke out into the night. We crossed the heath. It was just a little group, and they stayed together well. We had fun. We made stupid delightful things. I’m trying to persuade Siwan to release ten more tickets a night, as we’ve been sold out and we have never had a crowd we can’t handle. Might as well push the limits until we know… More people get to come, more money for us… Too many people is never fun, sure, but we’ve never come close to that in my opinion. Tonight the loo was flooded at The Old White Bear, and they still sustained themselves as our midpoint. All the performers are … performers. The more the merrier I say.

I worry about finishing at the King William IV, because I love the pub but I currently get people to clap us for the end of the walk directly outside the flats of the joyless humans who tried to shut the pub down to raise the price of their property. They are likely gathering evidence to have another go at making money by shutting down the pub. Pigs. I wanted everyone who came on the tour to sign a petition, but the pub internalised their struggle instead of externalising it. Maybe we are too wacky to be helpful allies. Either way, it’s a good pub, but for the fact that they decided to make a Crêperie ten foot from the original Hampstead Crêperie. It won’t last long I hope. It’s a stupid and aggressive thing to do. I suspect the King Willy just has a short term managerial issue going on somewhere high up. Whoever it is will leave or get sacked before long, one would hope. It’s a very actorish pub with a good kitchen. I’d hate to see it lost.

Also, if you love pubs, go see Choir of Man at The Arts. It’s a great and well priced West End show. I’ve been driving instruments around for it, they were featured on This Morning, and it’s just a beauty of a singsong piece about masculinity and pubs and life and stuff. Why not?

Another full day. Lou and I rose early and up we went to London. There’s a show on at The Garrick Theatre called “My Son’s a Queer (but what can you do?)”. Lou had made some costumes for it and wanted to see it after an Edinburgh Festival that was triumphant enough to have it programmed in the heart of Soho. I’m always happy to see things.

The trend for the “show about me” still rides high, and often as I watch them I understand why. If people get them right, the performer can make everybody watching key into their own personal story. We are all so different, but we all have similar keys.

This was about a young human growing up queer in the town where Lou was born, to a brilliant family that worked out quickly how to support them. With a male name they were getting bullied for being Cinderella. The mum got a job a dinner lady to keep an eye. The whole tale is stitched together with exhaustive home videos taken by the parents. Our performer Robert is only 26. Rob has never not been YouTube generation. Rob has likely never not been fabulous. In many ways, watching them as a straight white (Hispanic?) downwardly mobile upper class middle aged male I might not have expected to have found so many points of contact. I found many.

I found myself swamped in memories of the things Max and I performed as children. Max was always the consistent character, I played everybody else. I was both parts of couples, where the husband would go off for a drink and then talk loudly to the wife offstage I was changing before coming back on in one of my mum’s dresses. We worked hard on the stories. We made them really as another form of playtime, but I quickly started to cleave to the performative life, and occasionally forcing my parent’s friends to watch us was golden.

Sadly for me it was not an easy win to get my parents let me perform. The stage is no profession to the world I grew up in. Many of my childhood friends are literally actual plants that can talk. The morals and behaviours of actors are base and to be shunned, they have been conditioned to believe. And lest they “go off the rails” too, they treat us like we are dangerous.

“Go into any other profession,” my father told me. “Go be a long distance truck driver. You’ll make more money and see more of the world.” He was wrong on the seeing the world thing, which is just as well as that is my chief delight. Money can go twiddle. The single most interesting job I have ever heard of being advertised in my life – the one job I always wish I had at least had an audition for – was the Globe to Globe Hamlet that went to every country in the world. Fucking hell. The only reason I’m glad I didn’t get that meeting and that job is because then my bucket list would be ticked with short ticks. I would love it… I could’ve gone window shopping then returned. Still, I’ve seen loads of world. I will see more.

Regarding the show today though, I fell in love with the performer’s family. So supportive. So full of love. My family had love for me too of course – so much. They would have hated a performance life themselves. They thought that love was to discourage me from that life. Of course it just cemented it. Oops. I put myself through drama school after dad died. Shortly after I finished my three year course, mum was dead from a sustained period of alcoholism.

It was wonderful to see the videos of Rob’s family being brilliant. Rob didn’t have the space to put a stage in the back garden, or build a theatre in the basement. Rob did it in a crowded living room with a supportive mum and dad. And now they’re sharing it with a wide and delighted audience. Good old them. All of them. It takes a tribe. I wonder…

Huge wind in from the sea. The distant electronic thumping of beats from one of the local clubs. Low cloud and light pollution but the air is not so cold that I can’t sit here a moment, at the top of the Madeira Lift. It’s a Victorian elevator, closed for COVID but have they reopened it yet? These benches around the side are convenient on sunny days for sitting and boozing. If it was still tonight I might have had some energetic company incoherent company. As is it’s almost too windy and too cold for me to be here. Almost. But not quite.

And as I write three local kids have made it clear that this is where they want to light their spliff. They have a bluetooth speaker and are trying to stand facing into the corner and shielded in order for the fire to take. It’s so windy, and through their eyes I’m the weird beardy guy with his hood up. I’m cold anyway. I’ll go sit in Bergman.

I just got here to Brighton from London post ghost walk. It’s a habit I need to get back into. It’s twenty past eleven and we finished about two hours ago. Lovely audience and I just blitzed up afterwards. Sea air and good company. She’ll be asleep when I get up there, but it’s still worth the effort to go up and sleep warm with her. Lone sleep is a different sleep from the sleep we have in proximity to others. It’s good to have a bit of both. It’s good to know we aren’t alone, even if it’s just being banged into or grunted at at 3 in the morning.

I will barely see Brighton this time. Back up to London tomorrow morning and another walk Saturday evening. Just for now though, at the turning into darkness, I can be outside in the wind here and admire the huge sea without getting so cold I can’t think. Oh God winter is coming. The clocks will steal the light soon. Hex is still lost in the bones of an underfloor, my body is behaving strangely and Christmas Carol is cancelled. This has been a shit week. This is another reason I’m in Brighton. With all the shitshow at home I wanted to connect to her as a beacon in my life. She’s working her fingers to the bone up there making costumes for Christmas shows, but we have allocated tomorrow. I wanted a sleep as well as a day. A bit more time. A bit more connection. Humanity.

And on that note, that’s enough with the writing. I’m gonna head up to the seaside home of om and fluffy cats. Enough wind. Enough Friday night Brighton. Peacetime.

Oh good lord. So I’ll definitely be doing a strange and lovely thing in The Kirkaldy Testing Works on and around the 5th November. More about that anon. Something else to keep me distracted.

And the news… The conservatives are trussed up like a turkey. Are we honestly going to see Boris back? I could believe it…

I went in for a blood test today at Chelsea and Westminster. Just a check-up. Downstairs in the basement there’s a little room with a display screen. Phlebotomy. You take your ticket at the door and you wait in the room. There’s no receptionist – ain’t nobody got time for that. Just lots of people looking at you. I lasted about a minute and a half before working it’d be be about an hour’s wait, and going back up into the sunshine. I had a coffee and a ginger shot and looked in windows. Better that than watching people waiting in that airless basement room. I timed it reasonably well.

“I might pass out,” I tell the nurse. “It’s pretty common after I get injected.” “What have you eaten today?” “Nothing…” “And you wonder why you pass out?” Touché, miss nurse. She was going to get the trainee to do me, but knowing I’m shit with needles she did it herself. I felt a bit wobbly but got back quickly and sat in the airless room until I was happy I wasn’t gonna fall over. Then back upstairs and the sky had opened. A thick curtain of rain. I ran across the road to The Chelsea Crêperie and had a disappointing and expensive crêpe. The staff were great, but the crêpes are better in Hampstead, dahhhhlimg.

The blood test is gonna check for all sorts of things. Lipids and liver function and I think they are looking for scary things. It’s an MOT and in good time as I’ve been worried. I wanted it in February but I wasn’t allowed to have anything but COVID back then so I had to wait. Sometimes peace of mind is worth a huge amount though. I’m in the throes of accepting that it’s time to look at going about things more mindfully and more carefully than I’ve been used to. We are none of us immortal. Time to change outlook.

I’ll be leading a load of people around Hampstead tomorrow on the creepy pub crawl, and I’m going to see if I can get around the whole evening without a drop of alcohol. Double points if nobody notices. I actually cancelled my morning workshop tomorrow though, just as I couldn’t think beyond the blood test and there was stuff I was supposed to learn. Dumb of me. Throwing away money and making myself look wobbly to the day job. But sometimes it’s good to have a rest.

No sign of Hex yet.

I’ve been back to being a corporate stooge. Smart clothes and a top hat. Show up at The Globe. Do a thing. Make it nice. Have some wine. Go home.

Ffion and I have done similar things many times. The hardest thing is the learn. Once they are learned they become about delivery and nuance, something which is ultimately about the audience when it comes to Shakespeare text, even if it’s a hotchpotch. We know the deal, we are unruffled, we show up and we make things go well. I remember the first few times I did things like this and it felt like it was super important. I suspect I put off clients by asking them about the nuance of delivery… Our job is just to get on with it.

I remember one corporate gig where I had to just man a great big bookshelf door. The other side of the bookshelf door was a desk where people had to be signed in. The door was excellent until it was opened when it became “oh and now we need to sign in.” a WELCOME TO NARNIA? ADMIN.

I had just let twenty people through the door and they were literally just the other side of it signing in when the producer – I can’t remember his name so I’ll call him Powdery Joe Cokeface – he came to the door with like twenty VIPS. I knew if I opened the door then his important delegates would just be queuing through the door, which would then be wide open, exposing the artifice and making everything they had built look shit. I then had the invidious position of extemporising reasons why the door had to remain closed whilst powdery Joe was demanding in between chews that I just opened the fucking door. I ignored my employer knowing that the experience of his guests would be better for it. I defied him, knowing that I knew better in the moment what would work. When I opened the door finally it was perfect timing, the queue had died down. Coke-face and his hokey friends weren’t in a queue for ages cos they’d had me doing whatever about Phileas Fogg. Still, Cokey Joe never stopped making me feel like I had done wrong, when actually I had added value to what would have otherwise been a worldbreaking queue through the open door. That’s coke for you.

Powdery Joe… He never let the delay at the door go, like I had held them up in order to do the talking instead of doing the talking in order to hold them up. Like I had no eye on anything other than the literal task I had. I can’t remember him too well now though, powdery Joe, but I can tell you with certainty that he was a total jerk. He recently appeared mid drunken night. A card carrying official state sponsored Jerk. I think he might even have been the same jerk who supervised me throwing out about four crates of beer post gig in a weight paid for dump because it would be “unprofessional” to do anything else with it – like take it home. I might have conflated two asshole producers in my memory, because a certain white powder homogenises people. I think they might have been one person. Who knows. I have done a lot of events over many years, and now my instinct is good enough to steer me away from the likes of Captain door-twat. Chances are he’s got no septum by now and a ravaged face. I wouldn’t recognise him or care to. I had a lovely time with decent people at The Globe tonight.

I’m sitting in a room in Waterloo that stinks of mouse.

We have a heater on. In front of the heater we have a dead mouse in a bowl. The heater is making the room warmer. It is also making the room smell of mouse. Once you learn to identify the smell of mouse it is unmistakable. It’s not unpleasant. It’s just… mouse. We are both sitting in it. She’s working on her laptop. I’m drawing up a quote for a driving job and writing to you.

Outside the door, Meg the cat is very very curious. She’s trying to get in but she’s not allowed. I let her in a while ago just to see if her nose could help us in our investigations. It wasn’t. She was interested in everything.

Why have I chosen to make a warm room stink of mouse and sit in it? For a change this isn’t performance art. It’s not character research although it might turn out to be. It’s an escaped snake. Hex is out. He’s gone.

Thank God Mel saw him last night. It’s been years. I immediately assumed that we hadn’t closed his cage properly or something. Not so. He popped a vent in the back. After one evening with Mel, he was looking for the edges and pushing the boundaries. This is the effect she has on everything. But he’s gone. Escaped.

He likes to go downwards. He was ground floor. There are floorboards and there’s a hole in the board. If he’s gone down there, he’s maybe kept going. I can’t see snake tracks in the dust but there’s a chance he is three buildings down by now. Totally harmless, of course. Faced with an actual live mouse, I would put my money on the mouse. He’s lifelong domestic and has been gently hugging puppet carrion. He has no venom. But my downstairs neighbour in Chelsea immediately started to believe that he would come up her loo when she was sitting on it even though he never left his tank unsupervised.

Snakes are pretty much the most misrepresented animal that exists. They’ve already got no legs… They were symbols of power in the ancient world. The Ouraeus of the Pharaohs, the infinite Ourobouros, Jormungand, the Caduceus and Hermes etc etc etc. Tiresias watched two snakes fucking and changed gender. Ancient religions held snakes in high regard. But… the Judaic Christian myth has become so extremely familiar and prevalent and in that one it is a snake that represents the baddie in the very first story where the ignorant go in quest of a knowledge that makes the whole of everything possible but destroys their safety. The snake is punished. Poor snake. You will still see stupid Christians on Facebook trying to make out like Caduceus is satanic or somesuch and that’s why vaccines whatever.

Generations of story gives credit to the ophidophobic. Shared fear strengthens it. I’ve spoken before about that urban myth of a snake stretching itself out next to the owner. It’s amazing how many people tell that story, wide eyed, clueless. “It was trying to see if it could get big enough to eat the owner!!” Yeah right. That one was certainly made up by someone who doesn’t know anyone that keeps snakes. You would have to live in a hermetically sealed house, and you’d suffocate. If the snake isn’t in the tank, it goes into a small hole, seeking somewhere dark and warm. It then stays there, or it maybe follows the smell of mices. The biggest risk is only ever to the snake itself as it can get underfoot, into hinges, into the springs of the sofa, and it will.

We tried what we could to get him to reappear. It might be a few days. We just have to hope he hasn’t gone into the sewers somehow and been immediately destroyed by rats. I’ll let you know if he comes back. We think he’s gone through a hole in the floorboards and then under the house. Thankfully the house is having the boards pulled up very very soon…

It was supposed to be a restful day.

Sunlight cooked me up from sleep before seven and headnoise kept me moving. At twenty past I abandoned any plan I might have had of turning over to dreams again. Day off? Kind of. But I started writing invoices and planning jobs almost immediately. I’m sleeping on my own sofa if I’m home. It’s not ideal but I’ll be away a lot and I am in a patch where I need to bring in the money, and it’s nice to live with Tom. If I was organised I would have found a sofa bed or futon for the spare room. The pressure of council tax and service charge and all the hateful hikes means that I’m part of the vast mess of people who are having to think about the pennies. I’m staying pretty busy. But still, the outgoings are astronomical. It’s not fun, living in this country without a minister’s salary.

I was up and out of admin zone by noon. Invoices sent and planning done for a great big drive I’ve been asked to do. Then I had a big old day in front of me.

I’m not very good at doing nothing. Arguably I need to get better. Lou certainly would agree. Faced with a gap, I overfilled it. I carried a load of stuff to the lockup where I met Siwan. She looked through some of my friends mother’s clothes – they’ll be used in a short film, as will her teddy bears. Then I missioned it to Kirkaldy’s Testing Works to try and pin down whatever the heck we are doing. It’s clearer every time, but the more time on the floor the better. I’ve got the keys now, but they are trying to write the press release and I don’t want it to say wrong things. We have been spitballing and dreaming. Time to make it concrete. But which of the many options?

Thinking of this I went to Jethro’s and grabbed the bag I left at The Willow Globe. It was Martha’s birthday, his daughter. You can never have too many Libras. I gave her a half crown that happened to be in my glove compartment. I didn’t stay to see her reaction as you should never linger on gifts, particularly when you’ve literally pulled them out of the glove compartment. A gift is for the person, not for you. I marveled at the mycology that Jethro has successfully encouraged into his little urban garden. I would have thought woodchip cat litter wouldn’t encourage mycological diversity, but those buggers were thriving. He is magic, of course. So are you.

Then I drove to Waterloo where I helped Flavia carry a wardrobe upstairs and jiggle a load of other awkward crap around up and down all those stairs. It was as much a social call as anything else but she gave me back my congestion charge. It was glorious to see her, and I brought Mel so she could see Hex again. Flavia and Ivo have become wonderful snake keepers. It’s brilliant to see the little pudding so well kept. Another weight off.

Now I’m in Gypsy Hill. Tomorrow morning I’ll have to be in Forest Hill and this is most of the way there. My clothes from The Willow Globe are in the tumble drier and I’m writing while I wait. I’ll sleep in a bed tonight. Luxury. All is right with the world. But from… HOW DID I TAKE NO PHOTOS ALL DAY? grrrrrrr

I’m tired. So tired that I think I’ve forgotten how to make sense. I’ll try. Extracting joy from people in London… It’s a living, but it’s not the easiest. And today was a real double header. Panda met some lovely people. Sometimes it does feel like therapy. Invited audience are always blocking themselves, but I know how that is from a million abortive attempts to rehearse immersive theatre.

The legit audience were lovely as ever. We had some crazy moments of truth. I just had to be the Panda while they talked. The joy is theirs to control, not mine. The only people who miss that are the ones who have been given expectations. “The phone is ringing. It’s for you. Who is it?” I ask as I give them a dead line. This is me throwing down the gauntlet for play in the form of a handset and that question. I’ve had The President. I’ve had The Queen from beyond the grave, and The King. I’ve had people’s mothers often. I’ve had my mother. I’ve had ex lovers, gangsters, fictional characters, animals, heavy breathing and a burglar alarm company. Whatever they decide to make up. “Who is it?” I ask one invited person. “Nobody, it’s a dead line,” I get from them. That’s the truth, of course. That’s the only answer I cannot cannot accept. I’ve just invited them to play and they’ve blocked me.

I’m having none of it. I take the handset back. *Say yes to the audience* I know. I listen. “You’re quite right. It’s nobody. It’s a dead line.” They agree with me. “Whoever it was must have been cut off. I’m sure they’ll try again. OH yes here we are. It’s ringing again! Hello? It’s for you again. Who is it now, quickly before they hang up.” She’s not getting off the hook so easy. Worst case I’m gonna ask them what they’ve done to get themselves on a list where people ring the whole time and then hang up. But, this time it’s not a block. It’s a deflect that opens fun. There’s a plastic tortoise right next to the phone. She’s looking at it I ask her who it is. “It’s… It’s this tortoise.” “What does the tortoise want?” A pause. A need not to be asked. I hear her brain audibly screaming. “It wants to escape!!!” Which is what the querent wanted.

We are not being observed here, but if you’re in the window with a man pretending to be a Panda you are playing. It costs you nothing. Nobody can hear you but the grown man with a stupid head on. The only risk you run is being featured in this blog as the invited person who was slow to remember how to play. Sorry about that, I guess. But it turned out to be a wonderful deflection anyway. I was happy, and I hope it was joyful to the person, because ten minutes later we were both at the door encouraging that plastic tortoise to escape into Brook Street. “Fly little one! Run for your life! Go! Go quickly while you still can!” A touch of mad joy we wouldn’t have found without me being blocked, and one which spilled into the streets.

I finished the day fine. The volunteers threw the door open to the public most of the day and didn’t quite get why I kept on insisting on breaks from the traffic they were bringing in as I was cooking. “Mel yesterday was fine with it,” one of them tried at one point, around the time I got a text from her the day before saying “this is why there has to be two people doing this sort of work!” He’s a very keen volunteer. Glad of him. He was trying to cook my head and it is only my confidence in myself and what I’m doing that allowed me to tell him to close the fucking door. Yeah, great, if there’s two people, roll it back to back. But do you have any idea how hot those heads get?

Then it was Halloween spookiness. Kind of the opposite. I went walkies. We covered a lot of ground. Stories were told. I’m so fucking done. I’ve lost the ability to be positive. Hence the whole first half of this. I haven’t stopped for too long and I surf on my forward energy. Tomorrow? Nothing much to worry about. Just invoices. So many of them. Admin backed up from months ago. And a spot of rest. Don’t ring me too early. Zzzzz

Home and tired. Mel was covering Panda and I was helping a friend downsize his mum in the nursing home. Horrible process. And it involves furniture that needs to be moved. His mum won’t really know where she is anymore. So sad. Lou has a friend that might want some of the furniture pieces. The rest might fit into immersive theatre, but it’s always the same: storage storage storage. If I ran my own venue it’d be a different thing. You can have all the lovely useful things in the world but if there’s nowhere to put them and no art to use them in they are just clutter. I was glad though to meet his mum, even if it was mostly her asleep in a big room. “Most of my dad’s stuff was kept because he took a great big unit out and bought a load of stuff at auction to fill out a theatre he thought he was going to take over, but it all fell through”. Tragic. And yet we all do it. We cling into things against the possibility of them being relevant to us again.

Mel is back in town and we are brainstorming a show. It’s one way of dealing with the vast amount of beautiful clutter that neither of us want to see just thrown in the bin, knowing it is worth more than that. Dress a space. Make a story. I really want to find a space in spring next year that can go towards an experience. About how we define ourselves. About what we use to try to augment our ideas about who we want to be seen as. Identity and trappings and vanity and transience. Things that live longer than people. A response to yesterday’s blog subject maybe. Finding a way through art to help people think about their reliance on new new new. I’ve had a few ideas. Haven’t filled in any funding applications though so Spring is probably optimistic. But the amount of times I’ve had an idea and then seen someone else make it… Maybe it’s time to be the change. I just had drinks with the lawyer for You Me Bum Bum Train, which will only make sense to a few, but those who know will know how they changed everything for the better.

We went walkies on the heath tonight. It’s a good route this year. I’m enjoying it. Sunday is the only night still with bookable tickets. We have hit the cap. That’s something to be proud of so early in the run. I am enjoying my stories and they seem to be enjoying them. The performers and costumes are all great. What a joyful silly fun thing. I’m very much buying into my multi-headed existence right now. I do occasionally lose track of who and when and what I am. And why. I am definitely not being the best friend I could be to anybody – I barely communicate with Lou and mostly that’s on the move from A to B.

Sleep now though. I’m back on my sofa tonight. My comfy sofa. The leaves are autumn. The daytime temperature is late summer. I’ll hold onto that…

I remember watching a video of some guys in Iraq filming themselves as they destroyed sculptures that had been there for many lifetimes, trashing a museum, because God or something. I remember thinking at the time how small it made them and their shit view on God. These angry children, breaking things for inherited emotional reasons and redactive faith. I saw how powerful they thought they were, as they wrecked heritage. Senseless arrogant immature behaviour. Short term thinking. Kids out of control in the playground. I didn’t share the video or react negatively. “Don’t give it air”, I thought. Yes my friends were reacting negatively, but the implacable men with sledgehammers will have been buoyed up by my reaction, had I given it. They would have felt that the short term cause for which they destroyed the ancient things was somehow highlighted by my outrage. Essentially me shouting about it would have added to a narrative that led to more damage being done.

A cause I believe in has just made me hate the cause. I think we have to protest. I think we need to make a stand. But there’s a basic level of respect for skill and beauty, not understood by these idiots. Two humans with no love or creativity in their souls have gone into a gallery to try to destroy something much much better than they will ever be. Don’t Google it if you can resist. If we bump up the figures by googling it and showing outrage online it’s only a matter of time before somebody sets fire to the Tate Britain because they think that “Slugs should be left alone in gardens!” Maybe they’ll blow up the Louvre to “Save Ebola!”

Yeah so this cause I was behind until they did that. Of course these idiots in power shouldn’t prioritise their corporate masters, and starve others… but they will… We can fight them but why destroy art? Destroying art is showy but ultimately it just makes the activist look arrogant and self centred. “My very temporary thought thing about a situation that had no relevance when this piece was created – it’s important enough that I will video me me me me with my soup me me gluing myself because it was me and then I get to stay there with my polymer printed plastic T-shirt angry about the oil industry me me me next to a piece of art now covered in soup that sure it has been overpriced by a consensus of which me me me me me is not part but now me me me I’m here and it’s my cause not me me me me me me me me me which is important me not me me me me me me me me me.” You needn’t watch the video, it’ll give them hits. Two smug humans try to ruin something deeper and greater than they will ever be while wearing T-shirts with words about this week’s thing. Then they very theatrically glue their hands to the wall with these expressions of great import, as if this childish act of vandalism will do anything other than alienate allies. I still reluctantly agree with their cause but I’m absolutely disgusted at their methods and what it might do going forward. Some turd already tried for the Mona Lisa. Yeah, again, it’s overrated. The establishment has created false value in art. That’s how the art world works. It’s horrible and wonderful. It’s art. Burn down the systems! Change the value structures. But they are augmenting those systems by proving that the thing with notional financial value has that value for a reason. Why not throw soup on their favourite painting, not on one that the consensus has given high value to? Probably cos those two fools haven’t actually looked at art ever, just articles. No context outside of the frame they’ve been radicalised though. No colour. No light. No joy. Just soup and smug.

The more air time they get the more likely people will copy them. You should never punch down. Pictures in a gallery are open and on display so we can all enjoy them. Now we will be more monitored in galleries. These humans who have no art in them and have found belonging in a cause to which they’ve been drawn on the internet… We can’t force perspective. Only time will bring that. But they punched down today, and there’s very little below them, two little nothing humans with a can of soup. “Let’s fuck up something beautiful and free because we want to belong to our internet group.” It’s not even really about oil, despite what the plastic words on their t-shirts read. It’s about belonging.

They chucked soup on a picture of the Ukrainian national flower painted by that depressed Dutch impressionist who cut his ear off. Then they theatrically glued themselves to a wall next to their idiocy with expressions of great pride and defiance totally at odds with the fact they’d both just shat in their own mouths. They brought someone to document the whole atrocity. I hope they rot in hell, all of them. I hope they don’t inspire further morons to further atrocities. Yes it’s all very middle class rage here. I’m sure they’d be thrilled. They likely don’t see it as punching down. They likely don’t see the short termism or the selfishness. But I do, and I detest them for it.

Make something, you idiots. Making things is much easier than destroying things and can send stronger messages. For every family sandcastle theres a kid kicking it over just after they leave the beach. For every field of snowmen there’s three drunk teenagers running at them at dusk. Destroying is never clever. Never. Shame on them. Nothing is ever as easy as we want it to be, particularly if we aren’t mature. “Just”? Like it’s easy. Just stop being selfish destructive humans. It’s not so easy, is it?