‘Would you be happier being a stupid but happy pig, or an intelligent but unhappy person?’ The question was thrown into the dark room, its source unrecognisable in my stupor.
‘Pigs are actually very clever,’ someone replied. ‘The average pig is as intelligent as a three year old child’.
‘Yes, but they are still ignorant of their own existence,’ said the voice again. A long haired guy next to me was drooling, but I don’t think he realised. A television was making noise somewhere, and I realised I had gone too far.
‘Fuck you. Fuck all of you!’
A horrible fear was kicking in – everything was moving too fast, too many thoughts, none of them satisfying. Time rolled on, and I realised I had no idea how long we’d been sat there in the dark silence in our New York hotel room. Continue reading
Okay, I’ll admit it, I’m a Man United fan. Some may call me a glory supporter, but that’s just because they support Sheffield United. Who are rubbish. In truth, my Dad supported United since they were in the old Second Division, and his devotion left me with no choice in the mater – I was born a United fan.
So when I sat down on Tuesday night, I was quite worried. It was moments before the second leg of the Champions’ League Quarter Finals, and Man U had lost the away leg 2-1 at Roma, requiring them to get a 1-0 win or better to get through to the next round. At the weekend they had lost to Portsmouth (Oh the shame!) and hence allowed Chelsea to move up to only three points behind them in the Premier League. Worst case scenarios were rushing through my head, and they went something like this:
We lose to or draw with Roma and go out of the Champion’s League. This destroys our confidence and we get knocked out of the FA Cup (God forbid by Watford), and furthermore lose or draw a couple of games in the Premiership and lose that – allowing Chelsea to possibly collect the treble while we skulk home, trophyless, and cry ourselves to sleep to REM’s ‘Everybody Hurts’. Continue reading
First and foremost, I offer my apologies for the lack of an Arty Bit last week (Editor’s note: Plus this week’s being late). This is the fault primarily of the editor, mainly because he doesn’t pay us enough or respect us enough, but secondly because he is generally an arse. Hence, I took it upon myself to have a well earned break, probably due to the fact that I was lost very deep inside the strange and twisted world of Hunter S. Thompson. And it was my birthday. Anyway, off with you naysayers, and let us resume our tour of the fascinating world of art. Last time I left you with my good friend Egon Schiele; this week however I have found myself looking up an artist far more recent, yet as interesting and tragic as Schiele.
As many of you may have noticed, my past few articles have mainly been concerned with the Young British Artist’s movement. However, dear readers, this week I find myself awake at some dark hour between one and two a.m. on the night of the daylight savings time changeover – a time, it appears, that does not truly exist. Instead I have travelled fantastically and inconceivably through time, beginning at one, and somehow instantly arriving at two with no real idea of how I got there, and feeling slightly bemused at the fact that my watch has not joined me in my adventure through time, and remains at around two minutes past one. I therefore feel the need for a rare indulgent pleasure. Sarah Lucas and Tracy Emin begone! There is no place for you here. This is a moment to reflect upon a true master of his craft – nevertheless equally if not more controversial in his day. I could be talking about a vast multitude of artists of course, Van Gogh perhaps, maybe even the great Picasso. But tonight it so happens that I am going to enlighten you lucky souls with a tale both great and tragic, for this is the story of Egon Schiele…
This week has been a good week. Us English love an underdog, and this has been one of those fantastic weeks when lots of struggling sides have achieved more than they would have expected. Watford, facing relegation in the Premiership, reached the semi-finals of the FA Cup. Leeds, bottom of the Championship, won a much needed victory over close rivals and second from bottom club Luton. Tottenham managed to get a draw away at Chelsea forcing a replay in the FA Cup quarter-finals (a game they really should have won though). Middlesbrough drew with the seemingly unbeatable Manchester United, also in the FA Cup. But most unbelievably, my local club, bottom club in the whole English league system, Torquay United, won. They actually won. Continue reading