Modern Shmodern

In an accidental fit of culture, Ali and I ventured to the National Theatre this afternoon to watch "Theatre of Blood" - a hilarious staging of the old Hammer House of Horror film which starred Vincent Price. The stage version starred Jim Broadbent and is an account of a hammy old actor who tricks seven newspaper critics who had savaged his performances in the past to an old theatre and then slaughters them all in the style of murders from Shakespeare plays (sorry if you were planning to go an see it, I may have given away some plot points). Plenty of blood and guts and all together excellent value for a tenner each.

However, since we were on the South Bank and in a cultured frame of mind we decided to venture down the Thames to the Tate Modern. I love art and Ali's sister is a fine artist so I have good reason to make the effort to appreciate art. We even have pictures up in the house that don't involve a female tennis player scratching her arse. I also like the idea that artists try to challenge the nature of what art is and what it means to the viewer, but please, don't put the results in an art gallery! Keep those thoughts in the A'level philosophy essay where they belong.

Seem a bit harsh? Well today we got to see 3 basket balls suspended in a fish tank. At least when Damian Hirst suspended a shark in formaldehyde it was original. But it's been done now. Move on. Ridiculous and plagiarism. Then there was the pile of bricks which apparently was the "artist" questioning what represents artistic materials. No, it was a twat wasting my time. Possibly the most pathetic display was a small glass of water suspended 7 feet up on the wall. The accompanying sign explained that the glass of water was in fact an oak tree and that the "artist" was challenging our perception of objects. If I were ever to meet the "artist" I might offer to challenge his perception of pain via a well deserved knee in what he perceives to be his bollocks. Idiot.