I had stumbled across the party, although I do it a great service with that word. The launch..uh..gig. the soiree. the gettumtogether. Miffy Bastine was standing outside Galleria 29, waving her cigarette around her head in that floridly inarticulate way of hers, and I was walking down the road, half dazed, having just spend a not insignificant amount of severance moolah (oh that was nice) on a pair of Kenneth Cole shoes and a smashing new pinstripe Paul Smith suit (currently being altered) and a deep dark brown Zegna shirt. Laden, and feeling better, I missed her initially and she caught me off guard. OH MY GAWD. I haven't seen you in loike, aaaages. "it was like ages," I say, "but unfortunately, not quite."
"hawr hawr hawr"
"why am I here?"
"oh you simply must..." she says and ushers me into the Gallery, "Simon Musew is having a show!"
"Simon.."
"Musew!"
"Is.."
"You simply MUST."
I entered, a glass of chilled, yet poor, chardonnay is thrust into my hand. I see what they've done. they've chilled it so that you can't taste it's paucity. Notes of, perhaps, a Zombies kiss, hints of paint stripper. I quaff, and make my toward the bar. The bar.. I of course mean the table with the bored art student. In front of him regimentally lined up, glistening piss coloured glass warriors.
"Wine sir?"
"could I have a bottle?"
"uh. Ok." He corks the brine. "Glass?"
"neck is a-ok"
"sure."
"tell me, what is this shit on the wall?"
"Musew."
"Who is this cunt?"
"Um. I have no idea."

The canvases, raped and disfigured, are further dotted with red. Sold. who buys this shit. Gavin Friday is in the corner combing his head. Bono probably sent him. "Buy me some aaaaarrt," probably bought the lot. That or Musews mother, who's probably rich enough to have indulged her talentless phenom to the point of self belief overload. I'm aghast, standing there, swigging this lymphatic cock residue. The art bares the hallmark of education, and appropriated taste. this line over there, this half reference there. Bollocks.
"he's going to be a star" it's teddy Frayne next tome. He owns the kip.
"Teddy, hi" he smiles and offers me his hand. I have to shunt the bottle under my arm, or put my bags down on the ground. I do neither. I look at the hand.
"um"
"Eh," he says. "Teddy Frayne"
"I know."
"ah." planets die, species grind to a halt, a civilisation murders it's young in a bout of chagrin. time passes.







"and you are..."
"Hector Ignacious Grey"
"AH. Young Hector!"
"Yes."
"And how is Old Hector?"
"oh he's been dead, night on five years"
"AH."
"Indeed."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"yeah." I swig from the bottle. it's nearly gone and the wine has crept to my temples. "it was a blessing, really"
"oh. Um. Was he in pain? was he in a lot of pain? Um?"
"No. he was an utter cunt."
"Um."
Moons orbit planets, comets crash into the waves, fish develop feet. Aoens shift.
"your mother..is she...?"
"she's great."
"Great!"
"So, where's this Musew from, and why haven't I heard of him?"
"Oh, Simon’s very enigmatic. We know next to nothing about him. He might be Czech.”

God, I hate this cunt already. “His art is similarly enigmatic.”

“oblique” I say.

“Exactly” he says, and bows his great fluffy head to me, as if I were Clement Greenberg. “Um,” I um. He smiles, and sidles off as if he were on a conveyor belt. I hear “TEDDY!” from some arsehack in the corner.

Alan Staines says to the girl next him, as I gaze up the evisceration on the wall that someone has paid 15,000 euro for, “Imagine we had ipods when we were children.. imagine, you went around to your best friends and left with his album collection in your pocket.”

“God, that would be ggggreat,” says the ingénue.

I say: “where would the fun be?”

“fun?”

“in finding stuff out for yourself.”
”Surely you know music isn’t about fun. It’s about being in the know. If I could go back in time and take one thing with me. The ipod. Wouldn’t need never know anything about nothing ever again.” The girls smiles.

Wouldn’t need never know nothing about anything ever again… the phrase terrifies me.

“I have to…um……” I stumble backward, some Greek spills his harsh wine down my leg :”sorry, matey”

I push against people trying to find the door, and sweet sweet air, and soon. I can feel it rising… vomit and bile and acid wine and I’m nearly there, nearly at the door, nearly at the sweet sweet fuck fuck fuck fuck and I weave, with an artists flair, a multicoloured brocade of belly broth, in expressive swathes across the Donna Karens and Kate Millen’s and one pair of manolo on my way out.

Wouldn’t need never know nothing about anything ever again

Terrifying.