PP

PP

I have, it must be said, known and worked with a number of manky people in my time, and I'm sorry to say that some of it might have rubbed off onto me. Example:

One of our computer operators from my previous life in the private sector, in a doomed attempt to curry favour with his work mates, made an enormous number of copies of a three-hour video tape which had fallen into his hands. It was a certain art film set in a hospital, called, and I shit you not, Pissing Patient. It featured, well, use your imagination.

"PP", as it became known to those in the inner circle, also featured a needless amount of corporal punishment, glowing red buttocks, and if I remember correctly, some chap with rather large lady-bumps. This chap(ette) was insanely pleased to meet several other people with the differing flange combinations who were all too adept at playing the pink oboe. And then, he passed water all over them in unnaturally copious quantities.

I watched every frame of that sordid, debasing spectacle. Twice.

Discussing this turn of events with my arch-nemesis GW, he comments:

'I found an article in an art mag once (my old prof writes books on art appreciation from a neurological standpoint) about an artist who injected ink into his arse and then proceeded to fart it out onto a canvas. I have pictures, somewhere.'

My God. I have clearly missed my vocation. Turner Prize, here I come!

"And this piece I call 'Tomato Plant'. You can actually make out the tiny seedlings."

"I'll give you three million pounds for it."

"Why thank you, Mr Saatchi. Throw in a couple of boudoir pics of Nigella*, and it's yours."

Ch-ching!

* I have a huge problem with Nigella Lawson, and it is this: I look at her and think of her dad. Which would, when you think about it, be a very bad thing in the vinegar strokes.