To reconstruct the thought processes of twenty four hours which take me from Hate-Art to here, now would require a word soup so thick as to be as to be entirely opaque. The soup's ingredients include:
inchoate rage at the squandered taxes of the working classes so that they might be sneered at by the great-and-the good (like that £8000 on a leaving do for the patrician Head of the Arts Council forced to resign, miffed at the 'savage' 'cuts' to the budget);
a profound puzzlement that those who claim to speak in a radical voice for the marginal and the despised (while always being able to call Daddy who could rescue them from the damp squat and cockroaches) will always choose the lesser over the better, the vulgar over the sophisticated, the ugly over the beautiful;
flailing around looking for an art that speaks for and not at or of my own class;
a fear that the consequences of contemporary amnesia, infantilism, foot-stamping, point-scoring dog whistle hatreds will incite a new barbarism as reason is eclipsed in favour of emotional psychobabbling technocratic totalitarianism.
See, told you it was a thick soup.
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