I returned to the land of my birth tonight and the home of my miserable, yet enchanted football team - York. Only a few miles from where I first gasped fresh air as I sprung miraculously from my mother's virgin womb in Pocklington. My elder brother and sister were as surprised by the virgin status of my mother as anyone, but don't listen to their claims that such an idea is untrue. They are just jealous that I am the new Jesus and they are not.
The City Screen in York is another of these wonderful multi-purpose venues with stuff to surprise and delight you round every corner. Of course the principle delight for the people of York was the fact that I would be performing in the basement of this venue, but there are also cinemas and cafes there for people who are too stupid at the moment to realise how well worth seeing my act is.
On the first floor is a little lounge overlooking the river and at the moment there's a little art display that is well worth seeing. Alas I forgot to take down the name of the artist (it's Tristan Apple, I have subsequently discovered. He's the creation of Howard Spencer Mosley
who you can find out more about here), but it's a collection of modern art, that to the casual observer may appear to be the real thing, but upon closer inspection looks a bit more suspect. If you're in York over the next few days then go and have a look and if you know any more info about it please let me know and I will add links etc later.
It's not just a stupid "modern art is complete rubbish" parody, but a rather subtler and more pleasing look at the more pretentious end of this market, which also acts as art in itself as it makes you question what art is. I liked the objects that hang above your head, to remind you of how death hangs over our heads, with the added footnote that one of the objects did fall down and kill someone at a previous installation. There's a nice touch as well with a badly burnt picture which supposedly belongs to the Saatchi collection. It was held in the warehouse where the fire devastated so much modern art. But, the footnotes add, it survived this deluge and was actually burned by Saatchi as an attempt to impress his wife Nigella Lawson.
The York audience were polite and listened and did not shout at me when I said I was glad the Pope was dead. I punished them for their niceness by making the yoghurt routine last longer than ever. It was too long. But in a way, the longer it is the more of a piece of art it itself becomes and the audience become a part of that performance art. So they were lucky to be involved.
I think they mainly liked it. I don't think they were ashamed to know that the same Yorkshire blood runs through all our veins.
