Mr Turners Bussoms

Molly: Ooo I say, what are you up to Mr JMW?

JMW Turner: (clearing throat, and attempting to speak proper)

I do declare Miss Molly
(moving stool into position)

A Bussom…. (cough)

Is a Piece of Nature….
(steps on to stool)

In its Happiest Moments
(leans forward and gently kisses her left bussom)

Molly: Oh Mr Turner! You are a sweetie!
JMW Turner: (reverting to usual voice)

And yoor ooters are Beauties!

Molly: Would you do me a favour Mr Turner?
JMW Turner: Anyfing you arsk my luv

Molly: Well, could you make one of your nice paintings of them?
JMW Turner: Nuffin wood giv me greata pleasure deer fing

Molly: Only, I could sell it then see – get at least a guinea for it.
JMW Turner: Wot – sell yor Babies Moll?!
Molly: That’s right, 10 shillin for each tit!

Lambasting the Art Snits

A new Reality Game Show is coming to Channel 9 called “Lambasting the Art Snits”

A chance for unfairly derided, chided, and criticised Artists to get their own back!

Yes, thats right! All you much maligned Artists out there can now throw all those brickbats back where they came from!

From left to right in the picture above we have: Brain Sewerage, Windyfarts Flabbichopchaps, Wil Glumparts, Edward Snooty-Prig, and Kirsty Egg-Nog.

Online commentators have already been sharing what they think of these 5 Arty Snits (appearing on Saturdays programme)

Brain Sewerage:
“Caricature of a vitriolic queer man: nasty barbs, tick; anti-women hysteria, tick; self-appointed arbitrator of taste, tick”
“You are a preposterous probe to ones probity dear chap”
“Such a huge element of posture and performance in Mr Sewerages persona”.
“The strangulated plummy voice. The vacuously contrived voweeels. Is this guy for real?!”
“Puffed up with poncey grandiloquence”. Makes me want to poo on his head!”.
“The self-inflated pompous affectation of One who is permanently lodged up his own fundament”.
“If this fellow keeps inveighing and inveigling any further one is afraid of what one will do to him”
“A fracas in a dark alley is what Mr Sewerage needs”
“A punch in the nuts more like. Sign up everybody!”
“Ones diction is ones weapon of choice –remember that! Consider yourself admonished. One hates ones own critiques? Tough titty you toffy nosed tophat!”

Windyfarts Flabbichopchap
“Splurging is what you do old son”.
“You fat-faced mealy mouthed jaffa cake you”
“You’ve got the jowls of an overdone chump chop”
“Hey! Windyfarts! – here’s some crayons and a colouring in book – off you go!”
“Mr Flabbichopchap is putting me off my faggots and gravy!”
“Why do you always have to stand in front of everything pal? Get out of the bleedin Picture!!”
“We want to see the ‘great’ work of art you’re pontificating about – not your fat ugly mug!”
“Like all the worst of your kind you are a spineless, cowardly, bombastic, oleaginous, Fartisist”

Wil Glumparts
“A knobhead, pure and simple. That is: there stands his head – squarely positioned to assume the function of a knob. You’ll want to twist it, pull it, turn it all the way around on his shoulders till it is facing the other way (i.e looking backwards towards the door marked exit) Then with exquisite blah, you will want to rip that glumpart head off its stanchion and stick it right up his bumparts – exactly where the sun don’t shine”.
“Why do the BBC persist in employing numskulls as anodyne as wee willy Glumparts? He’s a joke!”
“Glumparts hasn’t got a clue about real suffering. He probably tucks himself into his electric blanket every night with a self-satisfied grin on his mush, counting his very lucky stars”
“Wil Glumparts definitely knows which side his bread is buttered. Did daddy put in a good word for you then Willy?”
“Stop trying to milk the misery Mr Numpty!”
“Watching Wil Glumparts has made me want to cut my ear off”

Edward Snotty-Prig
“Such a vile and vicious prick!”
“We think you’re a fake and a flake Eddie baby!”
“Edward Snot-Nose – is your vain overbearing air of superciliousness something you were born with?!”
“Mr Snotty-Prig lacks any kind of compassion or fellow human feeling”.
“He has the cold calculating eyes of a lizard”
“So this is what going to a Public School does to you? Turns you into a scared and sneery little Prig!”
“Edward Snotty-Prig lounges about like a trumpeting Know-All, snorting derision”
“Has this man got a Big Head or what?! Needs to pull his snooty neck in!”
“An insufferable bore. Like watching paint dry”.
“This Toff is his own work of art. Knowingly, carefully, curated”.

Kirsty Egg-Nog
“You revel in obscurantism don’t you luv?”
“Never understood a thing she wrote – elitist claptrap!”
“Anybody ever got through one of her articles? Replete with overblown baroque prose and glittered (or littered) with words like “cacafuego”, “eximious” and “ekphraksis” – got right on my tits!”
“Such an overweening, over-rated, self-regarding, sense of her own importance”
“Does she ever get to the friggin point? Circumlocutory knows no limits in Egg-Nogs mystifying, mystified, blank head”
“Waffle, waffle, blah blah, yawn, yawn, zzzzzz – whenever she’s on Saturday Review”
“You feed off genuine artistic endeavour like a preening piranha Kirsty!”
“When was the last time you ever paid for your own canapes Miss Egg-Nog”?

Don’t forget to vote on who you would like to lambast off the show first. Lines are open soon. Get firing those imaginary paintball guns – now!!

‘Beddy Bugs’

This is, believe it or not, an Art Installation. It has been especially commissioned and created for the Tate Modern ZeitGeist Exhibition entitled ‘Beddy Bugs of the Post-Prelapsarian Apocalpyse’

It can be seen to be an elaboration, an enlargement, and perhaps even an exaggeration, of the duvet dining ‘slovenly pleasures’ concept first conceived by Tracey Emin’s “My Bed” artwork of 1998.

What would at first seem to be a messy melange of random ephemera is actually a carefully constructed conceptual convergence or interactive immersion or nonperformative “experience”.

The ‘Happening’ has taken the UK Art World by storm, receiving a plethora of gushing and glowing reviews from numerous bigheads in the known.

Critical Reception:
“A tasteful (and tasty) displacement of splutterings, splashings, splodges, and spillages” (Windyfarts Flabbichopchap, Daily Obscure Review)

“These ad hoc assemblages have all been quixotically arranged to give the impression of an intricately orchestrated confusion of spontaneous combustion” (Brain Sewerage, from a Louche cloud in Limbo RIP)

“The transmogrification of torpor into languorous states of exquisite ennui are simply benign” (Tumperflake Wertenfaker on BBC Radio 14’s Mumbo Jumbo Review)

“To see “Beddy-Bugs” is to gloriously re-affirm bed-life as one long lying down” (Maffphew Collywobbles, on Channel Dive)

“A sumptuous celebration of the delimits of Horizontality” (Willy Glumpartz for BBC 2 Snoozenight)

“A thrillingly reductive take on pre-conscious post-modern minimalism” (Edward Snooty-Prig, The London Elitist Review)

“It expunges the tyranny of the vertical life” (Carter Partington-Pinge, Rococo Rot Review)

“This fertile confabulation of faff is both farcical and shockingly disturbing” (Kirsty Egg-Nog, ArtSnatch Review)

“A tour de force take on the virtues of slobbery and slumber lived in extremis” (Nicolaus Perversesneer, Arsethetica Magazine)

“Turning crisps into crumbs into crumps has never been so slovenly!” (Nigella Glammerper, BBC Food Magazine) (not an art critic as such, but apparently knows plenty about licking tasty morsels off her fingers, while in bed) (on her back)

This revolutionary, not to say revelatory, Meisterwerk is still very much a process piece in progress. In other words – they (the co-prones you see in the drawing above) ain’t finished making them messes yet. No doubt “Beddy Bugs” will undergo further development as the weeks/months/years slide by.

For those of you interested in how this processual piece was created here is the typical menu
Tea; Tea (with BadBiscuits) ; Tea; CiabbataToast & YorkshireBrew;
Breakfast: FriedFatBreads & BondageBacon &/or WarmSausage &/or MoltenMushes &/or ErogenousEggs; plus Codpieces of thick Spermatozoa; Coffee (laced with evaporatedlactations or quick jet of double cream from a fresh Jersey cow)
Brunch: Jizzyjam sandwiches buttered with kisses.
Lunch: Chunkychips dipped in Mayo; SunkenSpungePud; SpicedTartlets
Afternoon Tea: Steamyscones, &/or hot sluttered Crumpet, &/or fruity Kisscake.
Fountained straight from Hot – underground – Spring: sparkles of Goldengush Faerie Liquid.
Supper: SucculentBreasts &/or StockingedThighs of Roasted Flange, with PervyPeas, DevonDumplings & Gushygravy); Desert: Spotted Dick with CreamyCustard, &/or StickyLicked ChocolateFingers
Snacks: Super Sea-Salted Crisps, with special Salt-Sea-Foamy Dip; Snickers, ChoccyLiquors, KinkyHoolaHoops.

Fruit: Plummyplumplumcious, Chilledcherrynipples, a Bigbanana & the like) & Nuts (of the Monkeynut & ‘Other’ unknown variety)
Topped off with Slowlysuckedsoftmarshmallows

All to be sensually consumed, imbibed, decanted, tipped over, smeared and stuck into within the time allocated (usually to be no less than 24 hours at any one sitting lying prone)

The ‘immersive’ Installation will be concluded with a 3 hour session of ‘Vigorous Hoovering’.

Artists-in-Residence: (& co-creators of “Beddy Bugs”)
Watt Nibblebits and Bellaluga Blown; co-founders of the new Non-Movement of contemporary artists collectively known as Static Situationalists.

Needless to say you will find them – in bed – every Saturday. They live in that bed. Not virtually. Or literally. But really.

They are planning a sensational follow-up sometime next Autumn. But are being somewhat coy about what will be revealed. Although Watt and Bellaluga have both been quoted as saying (or whispering):

“Wait till you see what lives, grows, flows, and gushes – beneath the bed sheets!”

Diedre Dali

Yes, my grandadaDali got mucho to answer for.

Or maybe he don’t.

Asking ridiculous questions is less ridiculi than getting stupido answer.

And betta is put the wrongest answers with worstest questions.

Mix, mash, and mess up was his malign motto.

He say to me my granddadaDali, ‘Do not try not to follow my credo’.

‘Why’ I say.

‘Because my credo is only fit for one person’.

‘Who’ I say.

‘Me’ he say.

‘Me’? I say.

‘No not you’ he say.

‘Me, you know, the me behind I am, underneath what pretends to be me when I don’t pretend to be me’.

‘What am I saying? I am saying nothing. I am saying anything’ he say when I look confuse.

To confuse me more he say:

‘I will say anything to confound you. To confound your apprehencion. To confuse your expectacion. To contradict your preconceptcion.

To obliterate your        tiny      white mind’

I tell you now; don’t try make sense of this ok? Don’t get to end of this page and think you have right to think you know me. You won’t know how I tick. I will destroy all your undoubts. Believe me.

That is me say that. Saying how he would say.

Once grandaddiDali say to me:

‘Follow your dreams Diedre. To the edge of Time. Then fall off’.

So I do. Into soft space.

And if anything I soak soft spaces into softness till they become softless.

And I beats hard into hardness till my hand hurts. And sometimes I hit my head up a brick wall. To feel how much I can hate.

GranDalidaddio later say to me:

‘Don’t follow your dreams. Let your dreams follow you. Till its Time to drop off. Then sleep’.

Some time later (or maybe earlier?) grandaddlyDalio say to me:

‘There is no edge of Time. Only soft Time. Time that is neither Here or There. Time that is everywhere. Time that bends backwards behind corners. Time that reverses up dreams into cul-de-sacs’.

After this I say: ‘Grandaddy Sal? You talked a load of bullshit if I may say so’.

He say, ‘You may’

I say, ‘Then I will’

‘Bravo!’ he cheered.

‘And it stinks’ I say

He say, ‘Bulls that shit on foot of fighter will make him slip and fall’

I say, ‘You mean fall over edge?’

”No’ he say, ‘Fall over in bullring you dunce’

These are kind of talks I remember to have with my granDali. Not that I remember much. Everything was too rubbished up. My memories have jumbles in them. Persistence was not one of their failings.

Anyway, I guess I inherit some of my granDalidaddy foibles.

I got his Dali rank daftness. Some would say his crazy misanthropy. Some would say his perverted sense of humour. Some would say I got his bare-faced cheeks.

I know I got his whittling mustaches (spitting in my eyebrows)

I got his wobbly watches that never keep right time. Is why I am so too late writing this (should have happen twenty blue moons ago)

I got his trifling wit.

Like him I am shameless aggrandiser, o yes. Puffing powder of pretence over anything that could shine my light.

Where disdain is due I do it. Mercilessly.

Can you see how my sleazy tongue slips into his ludicrous lasciviousness? Non? That because my lips have been consigned to conceal what his tongue would egg me on too much to say.

I convolute like granDalidaddy. I tend to intend to make serious non sense.

I convulse with defiance. Just for the sheer bloody nora of it.

My deviance is not like his though. He could kill everyone. With the cruelest cut of his cane. Or the deadliest stroke of his brush.

But I wont eat shit of anbodys. Not even his.

Especially not his.

His smells too much like that stink.

Of somebody who don’t give a shit.

Well, I do.

Pam Picasso

Hey! Art, Painting, Picture – or wadevva you call IT.

Do not mess with me Si!

You hear me Green!?

Do. Not. With. Me. Mess.

Unless, that is, I mess you first.

Si, I do, I will take you Blue. You are mine.

And I will. If I want. Have you Red.

In my own way.

Si, it’s my way. Or no way Grey.

I don’t do the half. I don’t do Magnolia mediocre.

I grab screamin Carmine by the hairs of my brushes.

I sit hard on the face of pretty Magenta.

I kick boring Beige into the dark arms of Vermillion.

I squat steamin Brown down, feed it Cyans and Cinnabars.

Hey you! Yes you – Cadmium Yellow!? I throw you out. Flame you to the outer edges of Burnt Sienna where there’s no Apricots or Oranges.

Burst yourselves open you too cool colours. Don’t co-ordinate or make calm harmony with me. No, No, No! I want you flying into the Maroons of Viridian.

Go Paint Go! Race off wherever you want, go on – jump joy into Indigo!

Capricious colours – you promiscious lovers – I will chase you hot, the lot of you, into bleeding Burgundys and mad Ochres.

In Cerulean seas I fish for Corals, Emeralds, and Aquamarines.

As for Mauves and Teals, you lazy cows, go sit yourselves down in pretty washes of Pale Pastels. I abhor you already.

Look Cream, don’t blank me out! I’m about to hit you with Purple into Violet.

I punk you Pink.

I spit on you Puce.

Look me in the eye Blue Sapphire. Go on I dare you!

Turquoise? You swear at me like that?! Fuck you!!

With Black I will kill you. Yes you, hiding there as Amber behind Burnt Umber.

You will not, Sepia, make me old. Or tired Tan. Or bored Fawn. Or sad with sorrow Sage.

But you – Gold – will make me bold.

Si!, Let me terrorize this White snowy surface.

Canvas – you will yield yourself to the Azure in me blued, surrender and submit to my crazy Crimson spirit.

Into you Vanilla, I will spill and squirt Silver.

Come here Cerise and see me surprise.

Lie down beside me Scarlet to feel my heartfelt.

With Lilac.

Well, with Lilac I love.

I will.

Si, just for today

Like my granddaddy Pabby did.

With all he got

And gave to me

I will GO

I will GO GO GO for IT.

Pamming paint painting paintings

SSSSSSSiiiiiiiiiiii!!!!!!!

A Private View

Her: Yah, like I say, wasn’t up to much.
Him: What, Tracey Vermins Exhib?
Her: That’s right. Her. Dreadful prole.
Him: She’s got no idea of composition.
Her: Its just random blobs.
Him: There’s no visual brio, no command of line.
Her: More like connect the dots time.
Him: Yah. I mean, any praxis must be rhizomatic rather than arboreal if it is not to collapse into vapid formalism.
Her: Neurotimatical I’d call it.
Him: Her so called inferential dynamic is nothing more than hypostasized abstraction.
Her: If only it were that simple Crispin. I mean all this scratching and distressing the canvas she does dahling. Positively vile.
Him: So recherché.
Her: Well, that’s the posh way of putting it. Affected I’d call it.
Him: A rather narcissistic mess in its own excess.
Her: Yah. And more to the point – it stinks.
Him: It has no enunciatory power, no epiphanic pep.
Her: No sense of style.
Him: Epiphanic would be lost on Miss Vermin.
Her: Indeed. She couldn’t tell her Epi.
Him: From her Fanny.
Her: Better if she stuck it up her arse dahling.
Him: Oh, you are a div, er… a….. er….
Her: Oh yah cool, I er….what?!
Him: Sorry, slip of the old Freud there.
Her: What on earth did you mean?
Him: I meant to say “diva” Cecelia, or even “divine” dahling.
Her: I should think so too Crispin, after all I’ve done for you sweet thing.
Him: Yah, I can’t thank you enough for helping smooth the way for the publication of my Dada critique.
Her: Oh, think nothing of it Crisps. What was it called again?
Him: Dadaist Disambiguity and Deferment of the Inferent…..
Her: – Sounds painful dahling.
Him: In I to It Objectivisation.
Her: Super! It must mean an awful, er, lot, Crispy.
Him: I’m the first, I believe, to have seen how the assemblage of representational subjectivism in Dadaistic discourse is both contingent and ludicrous…..
Her: And possibly positively ridiculous dahling.
Him: And what is more, the distinguishment of lugubriousnessness is, when commeasurable with languor, or inserted as a certain sardonic laconicism, a new sanctification of the droll.
Her: Yuck! That is a mouthful I must say dahling, to insert into anything, let alone such a long boring sentence as that.
Him: Furthermore, the absentation of actuality from the concept….
Her: Oh do stop now dahling! You’re making my poor headikins spin.
Him: But I was only…
Her: But shut it dahling please. It’s getting rather too, er, much.
Him: Sorry Cecelia, I know I can be rather insistent.
Her: We all know what a smarty arty fart pants you are Crispykins.
Him: My critical faculty is somewhat prolix, excessive.
Her: Well come and excess your faculty on something useful dahling.
Him: Like what?
Her: Well, after all these lookings and thinkings and poo pooings, its about time we did some drinkies dahlings – don’t you think?
Him: Yah, my brainicum is in need of a refreshment or several.
Her: Yah, and laters, maybe we could do some furtive insertives
Him: Up your er?…
Her: Yah, in that private place you critique best my dahling!
Him: Cool! Super!
Her: Duper duper!