Hard time, no Hard Times
Pickled predators and bisected bovines do not impress me, nor do unmade tents or embroidered beds. I am not a fan of the YBAs who are, if not yet quite OAPBAs, certainly now MORBAs.
Nor am I a fan of VYBAs, a group who, denied conventional gallery space, appear to exhibit their work on the partitions of open plan office veal crates, countless fridge doors and occasionally framed on the wall in the home of indulgent to the point of misguided middle class parents.
Apparently the best selling reproduction of an artwork (that's 'postcard' for those of you not fluent in bollocks), unjustly unseating that poster of that bird playing tennis scratching her arse, is that one of the butler and the dancing couple on the beach. But I'm not so sure. Based on personal observation the most popular artwork in the homes of, certainly couples aged twenty five to forty, is a dun-coloured splodge of paint radiating a few spidery lines with the word 'Dady' crudely crayoned in the corner.
Denied a traditional commercial foothold in the art world, it's surprising that VYBAs appear to be responsible for such a large amount of the output of the greeting card sector. Possibly this is because it is considered charming, and socially acceptable, for a child to labour over a piece of folded A4 with some paint and glitter, the result bringing a tear to the eye of many an affected relative, possibly encouraged by their third breakfast birthday sherry of the morning. A cynic might remark that if the little sod hadn't spunked their pocket money on Haribo, they might have been able to spring for a decent, shop bought card, possibly featuring a beloved syndicated cartoon cat or a vintage photograph with a humorous caption.
What's undeniable is that the are occasions when a hand-made card featuring splodges, glitter and ill-spelled words of affection are of incalculable value (maybe that's why the work of VYBAs does not appear in galleries, the owners find it hard to calculate their commission of affection), most importantly when a parent is separated from their child. A child can't write you a two-thousand word letter with news from home like your mother, or send you racy poleroids of themselves in their scanties like your partner, but when it comes to communicating love across distance, a little bit of glitter of a bit of folded coloured card goes a long way to letting you know you're being thought of on your birthday when you are far from home, or worse, far from a Greggs.
Which is why the Government's policy of preventing prisoners receiving home-made cards would appear to be actual, calculated, wickedness.
Prisoners are possibly the one group in this country that the Government can penalise even more freely than public sector workers, who at least have a union to speak for them. The latest announcement from the Home Office (once described by Armando Iannucci as 'twinned with Mordor', a joke far too good not to repeat here and often) is that prisoners may no longer receive books as presents from the outside world. Apparently they have to work in the salt mines or whatever to earn the cash to buy such 'luxuries' (good to see the policies of the Department for Education, which has long considered books in state schools luxuries, spreading, like a shitty tide). Que outraged Bleats on Blather from outraged authors, and not just the ones popular in prison like Jeff Archer, condemning this, Bleats which also revealed that this policy extends to packages containing underwear and, wait for it, home-made birthday cards.
In a masterclass of evasiveness, twisting like a sweating peado in a vigilant's head-lock, the prisons minister, when interviewed on BBC Radio 4s Toady programme, managed to not answer any questions about withholding literature, banning pants and penalising small children squarely. In this, it's fair to say, he was ably assisted by the presenter who missed the most obvious question, the question the listening nation was shouting in a collective cloud of teadrops, toast crumbs and marmite fumes, which was 'what the actual fuck?'.
Apparently, the news from the Home Office is that searching packages going into prisons takes resource. Yes, yes it does. But that's why you have people in prisons who aren't prisoners.
I don't, thank goodness, know much about prisons. But I do know that you have to check stuff. Cakes, they have to be X-rayed to ensure that there are no files in them. Outgoing laundry trucks have to be searched or, if time is precious, randomly stabbed with a pitchfork. Vaulting horses have to be looked under in exercise yards. You even have to check the attic from time to time for evidence of glider.
All these are sensible measures, but banning children's cards to their parent is just cruel. What the fuck is the danger, are they afraid the con is going to sniff the glue securing the glitter?
The underwear thing is ridiculous too. Unless the state is going to provide fresh undies for everyone. One Bleat from a woman was making the point that if you stop gifts of underwear, you have to rely on the state for scanties. Municipal pants sound about as grim as it gets, but not as grim as having to rely on municipal bras. As we have seen, anyone relying on this administration for support of any kind if fucked.
The book ban is even more sinister than it is ignorant, and that's going some. Apparently inmates can buy 'approved' books from a 'catalogue'.
I am so appalled by the idea I can barely type.
But...
What the fuck! Who is choosing what people can and cannot read? Possibly the only fucking benefit to society of incarcerating somebody other than getting wrong-un's off the streets and seeing justice done is to have somebody come out of prison a better person than they went in, and I don't see a restricted reading list helping that? And what's in the catalogue? Government approved books. Is this fucking North Korea?
I'm no fan of this government, but this really is the lowest sort of unjustifiable, petty, vindictive and short-sighted unmitigated bollocks.
Nor am I a fan of VYBAs, a group who, denied conventional gallery space, appear to exhibit their work on the partitions of open plan office veal crates, countless fridge doors and occasionally framed on the wall in the home of indulgent to the point of misguided middle class parents.
Apparently the best selling reproduction of an artwork (that's 'postcard' for those of you not fluent in bollocks), unjustly unseating that poster of that bird playing tennis scratching her arse, is that one of the butler and the dancing couple on the beach. But I'm not so sure. Based on personal observation the most popular artwork in the homes of, certainly couples aged twenty five to forty, is a dun-coloured splodge of paint radiating a few spidery lines with the word 'Dady' crudely crayoned in the corner.
Denied a traditional commercial foothold in the art world, it's surprising that VYBAs appear to be responsible for such a large amount of the output of the greeting card sector. Possibly this is because it is considered charming, and socially acceptable, for a child to labour over a piece of folded A4 with some paint and glitter, the result bringing a tear to the eye of many an affected relative, possibly encouraged by their third breakfast birthday sherry of the morning. A cynic might remark that if the little sod hadn't spunked their pocket money on Haribo, they might have been able to spring for a decent, shop bought card, possibly featuring a beloved syndicated cartoon cat or a vintage photograph with a humorous caption.
What's undeniable is that the are occasions when a hand-made card featuring splodges, glitter and ill-spelled words of affection are of incalculable value (maybe that's why the work of VYBAs does not appear in galleries, the owners find it hard to calculate their commission of affection), most importantly when a parent is separated from their child. A child can't write you a two-thousand word letter with news from home like your mother, or send you racy poleroids of themselves in their scanties like your partner, but when it comes to communicating love across distance, a little bit of glitter of a bit of folded coloured card goes a long way to letting you know you're being thought of on your birthday when you are far from home, or worse, far from a Greggs.
Which is why the Government's policy of preventing prisoners receiving home-made cards would appear to be actual, calculated, wickedness.
Prisoners are possibly the one group in this country that the Government can penalise even more freely than public sector workers, who at least have a union to speak for them. The latest announcement from the Home Office (once described by Armando Iannucci as 'twinned with Mordor', a joke far too good not to repeat here and often) is that prisoners may no longer receive books as presents from the outside world. Apparently they have to work in the salt mines or whatever to earn the cash to buy such 'luxuries' (good to see the policies of the Department for Education, which has long considered books in state schools luxuries, spreading, like a shitty tide). Que outraged Bleats on Blather from outraged authors, and not just the ones popular in prison like Jeff Archer, condemning this, Bleats which also revealed that this policy extends to packages containing underwear and, wait for it, home-made birthday cards.
In a masterclass of evasiveness, twisting like a sweating peado in a vigilant's head-lock, the prisons minister, when interviewed on BBC Radio 4s Toady programme, managed to not answer any questions about withholding literature, banning pants and penalising small children squarely. In this, it's fair to say, he was ably assisted by the presenter who missed the most obvious question, the question the listening nation was shouting in a collective cloud of teadrops, toast crumbs and marmite fumes, which was 'what the actual fuck?'.
Apparently, the news from the Home Office is that searching packages going into prisons takes resource. Yes, yes it does. But that's why you have people in prisons who aren't prisoners.
I don't, thank goodness, know much about prisons. But I do know that you have to check stuff. Cakes, they have to be X-rayed to ensure that there are no files in them. Outgoing laundry trucks have to be searched or, if time is precious, randomly stabbed with a pitchfork. Vaulting horses have to be looked under in exercise yards. You even have to check the attic from time to time for evidence of glider.
All these are sensible measures, but banning children's cards to their parent is just cruel. What the fuck is the danger, are they afraid the con is going to sniff the glue securing the glitter?
The underwear thing is ridiculous too. Unless the state is going to provide fresh undies for everyone. One Bleat from a woman was making the point that if you stop gifts of underwear, you have to rely on the state for scanties. Municipal pants sound about as grim as it gets, but not as grim as having to rely on municipal bras. As we have seen, anyone relying on this administration for support of any kind if fucked.
The book ban is even more sinister than it is ignorant, and that's going some. Apparently inmates can buy 'approved' books from a 'catalogue'.
I am so appalled by the idea I can barely type.
But...
What the fuck! Who is choosing what people can and cannot read? Possibly the only fucking benefit to society of incarcerating somebody other than getting wrong-un's off the streets and seeing justice done is to have somebody come out of prison a better person than they went in, and I don't see a restricted reading list helping that? And what's in the catalogue? Government approved books. Is this fucking North Korea?
I'm no fan of this government, but this really is the lowest sort of unjustifiable, petty, vindictive and short-sighted unmitigated bollocks.
Labels: Art, Books, Literature, Prison, Social Media, YBA, Young British Artists
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