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asse d awa y a f ter s h e b ou gh t t h e Cr ying B oy . She blamed the p aintin g . More fires were re p orted, w ith the connection being the jinxed painting. People were terrified and were advised that if they owned a copy, they s h ou ld remove it f rom t h eir h omes imme d iate ly . T h ousan d s trie d to b in it, b ut it g ot to t h e p oint w h ere even t h e b in men were too scared to take them awa y in case the bad l uck was passed on to them. So a national newspaper told its rea d ers to sen d in t h eir curse d artwor k to b e d ispose d of p ro p er ly . T h e p a p er t h en r an a stor y f eaturin g a p icture o f one of their topless models w earing nowt but knickers an d a fi reman’s h e l met w h i l e s h e set l i gh t to a h u g e p i l e o f Crying Boy pictures.
     

    Nora has still got hers. I as k e d i f it’s cause d any pro b l ems over t h e y ears, or i f s h e’ d e x p erience d an y weir d h a p p enings. She just said, “My feet h a v e bee n a b i t s w o ll e n r ecentl y ”. Har dly t h e curse o f Tutankhamun is it.



T h ere were l oa d s o f p aintin g s in t h e Tate, to t h e p oint wh ere m y e y es g ot b ore d . I wan d ere d f rom fl oor to fl oor and room to room whilst being watched by the arty-look ing Tate Modern security staff, each with floppy hair and sty l e d b ear d , w h o were rea d y to pounce on anyone t h at d are d to tr y an d ro b a terracotta d war f . M y b ac k starte d to ac h e. It d oes t h is w h en I’ve b een wa lk in g f or a w h i l e (it’s cos I tried to kick my height when I was a kid and landed o n me arse ) , so I went into one of the video rooms that had com fy seats. I was t h e on ly one in t h e room .
    T h e vi d eo starte d . It was a p iece ca ll e d M eat J o y by the artist C arolee S chneemann. Half-naked women started r unning around with half-naked men, then they started w rest l ing. It l oo k e d l i k e o ld 60s f ootage. Next some bl o k e comes into s h ot t h rowin g d ea d , pl uc k e d c h ic k ens an d fi s h o nto t h e ot h ers w h i l e t h e y ’re wrest l in g . I h ear d someone b ehind me. It was a young kid. His dad then followed. At this point there was a load of close-up shots of the chicken, t h en it p anne d out to revea l t h e c h ic k en d own a b ear d e d man’s un d er p ants, w h ic h were b ein g y an k e d by a woman. “Come on Matthew”, said the dad with urgency. I felt awk w ard about watching the video, a lot more awkward than wh en I was l oo k ing at t h e pot mi d get h o ld ing a c h ess set. I w anted to say to the dad that I’d only popped in cos I was a b it sti ff, b ut I d i d n’t t h in k t h at was wise. I l oo k e d b ac k at t h e screen. T h e men an d women were now wrest l in g w h i l e p aint was being thrown around. It was like a porno version of Tiswas . I left before any other people came in .
    I t h in k art h as gone weir d l i k e t h is cos everyt h ing norma l h as b een d one. Turner p ainte d s h i p s, Monet h a d ima g es o f the countryside covered, R e mbrandt did good portraits, Dali did surrealism. So what’s left? Naked wrestling with b ald chickens. I think that’s what art is about: just comin g u p wit h somet h in g t h at’s d i ff erent, an d i f y ou can stic k a f rame roun d it t h en a ll t h e b etter.
    I’d had enough so I decided to leave the Tate. O n t h e w ay out I passed a donation box. “If you have enjoyed your visit, p l ease d onate £3”, it sai d . I d i d n’t b ot h er. Instea d I g ave a p oun d to t h e h ome l ess f e ll a w h o was sti ll outsi d e singing Christina A g uilera’s “I am Beautiful”. The eyes t h at w e r e stuc k o n hi s c h ee k s ea rli e r h ad n o w f a ll e n o ff .
    A f ew mont h s a g o I met an artist ca ll e d Davi d S h ri gl e y . I as k e d h im i f h e h a d an y art t h at sums u p art. He sent me t h is p icture :





London Zoo
    WHEN I W AS A KID I used to hear our nei g hbou