Bristol October 31st

It’s so dank out there. Cold and grey and gloomy. I can only just see through the gap between the flats opposite.  It’s 5 pm. And it’s dark. My head throbs and so does one corner of my mouth. I don’t want to go into B247 tomorrow. I’m done with putting in a load of effort for other people’s benefit while I get very little in return.  They don’t pay me and they can’t offer me work. Fuck em.

I left the house once today. I went to the RWA. I asked Imilia but she was having lunch withe our local Labour MP, Thangam Debbonaire in the Houses of Parliament. She never fails to surprise me.

Her message said “Yeah, she bought me lunch.”

Me: “She’s got your vote then.”

Her: “No”

I saw her on Tuesday and she was talking in her casual way about how Tricky was doing a book signing down at Foyles.

“Yeah, I used to go out with him. He was 22 and I was 16.” She’s surprised how the #Metoo movement hasn’t got to him yet.

Walking down Pembroke Road she pointed out where Banksy used to live. “Good old …” And shouted out his real name and then feigned guilt.

Bloody Brizzle royalty, our Imilia. Fancy her character but don’t think I could go out with her. Too sleepy. Too chilled out.

The RWA was a major disappointment. I remember this from last time. They advertise their ‘Annual Exhibition’ with a great fanfare of publicity like it’s the biggest thing but they’re just members of the fucking Academy. There’s no famous artists. It’s self aggrandisement and I can’t bear it. Bad art can be seriously annoying. The self importance of it.

And there’s a lot of it here. There was one painting for sale for £32500. I just don’t get it. The whole thing seems like a con.

When I asked the woman behind the counter if there was a permanent exhibition. In such a grand building you’d expect some famous, good art, she pointed me down the stairs to a tiny corridor opposite the loos. There were about 12 paintings along a neglected corridor by no one that I’d heard of.

There IS a permanent collection hidden away but instead we are subjected to lots of paintings of tattoed butch looking women. I suppose this is ‘cutting edge’ or landsapes that look like they’ve been painted by a student.

Is this nepotism? Why do we have to sacrifice quality for inclusion?

Get behind the scenes and bring out those pieces by Sharples, Vanessa Bell, Duncan Grant and so on and I’ll feel like my £15 was well spent.

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