Is It Just Me? (33 page)

In Miranda-Land, art galleries will be renamed Galloping Galleries and any paintings or sculptures present will be purely incidental.

What about all those people who really enjoy art galleries, and know about economics and stuff?

MDRC, I say this in hushed, I-may-be-wrong-so-please-don’t-hate-me tones: I have a hunch that a lot of outwardly knowledgeable, plugged-in people don’t
really
know what they’re talking about. The whole ‘Bank Crash’ thing (actually, was it called the ‘Bank Crash’? I’m not sure. You know, the scary thing when all the invisible money went wobbly) was, again, a good example of this. Everyone I knew had an opinion: ‘Oh, it’s all the greedy bankers’ fault’ or ‘Out-of-control consumer debt’ and ‘People gambling with other people’s cash. Terrible.’ Then about eight months later, one by one, they sheepishly admitted that they hadn’t had a clue what had been going on at all; it all looked a bit
Star Wars
to them. ‘No, didn’t understand a thing,’ they said. ‘Just felt I ought to say something. Pinched a few ideas from the papers. Seemed to work.’ To which I thought, ‘Hmm. I wonder if maybe
no one
knows quite as much as they claim they do, about
anything
? They all just don’t want to look like The Ignorant One, so they blather on, stealing sentences from the
Guardian
higgledy-piggledy.
And
, maybe none of them actually
want
to go to the Vermeer exhibition at the Royal Academy. Perhaps they’re dreading it. Maybe what they
really
want to do is lie around in pyjamas watching prime-time television and imbibing nibbles. Hmmm.’

Perhaps these people should, at least once in a while, give into their lower cultural urges. Musicals, farces, all manner of television – from sitcoms to Saturday night reality shows to escapist dramas. They should stop seeing them as ‘guilty pleasures’. To me, they’re just pleasures.
Blood Brothers
, or Gilbert and George – it’s all entertainment. Art is subjective and art as a form of entertainment escapism is as high art as any.

I hate to admit it, but what you’re saying does sort of make a little bit of sense.

^*
puffs self up to full height, smug and proud
^*
Oh, does it now? Have I
finally
got through to you, Little M? Have I
finally
convinced you that it’s always best to be who you are? Are you now swayed by my most marvellous words?

No. I just thought that if it’s OK to be an idiot, then I might not bother revising for my exams.

No,
no
. You absolutely must pass your exams. I insist. Without them, you might end up knowing literally nothing for the rest of your life, apart from every outfit that Jason Donovan ever wore in
Neighbours
. Please pass your exams. You need some basis of knowledge. It’s very important, because at some point (in my case, I am thinking it will be aged around forty), you might start becoming interested in higher art. Classic novels, poetry, art – the whole thing. All I am saying is if you spend a lot of your adult life not interested, don’t worry: other forms of art are justified. I reckon you are lucky if you come to the more learned stuff later in life. Just think, I have the joy of the Shakespeare sonnets all to come. I am the lucky one. So off you pop and revise, little one . . .

^*
singing
^*
‘I’ve lost that loving feeling . . . whoa, whoa, whoa . . .’

She’s off. So, MDRC, how was that for you? How do you feel about the contents of your coffee table after that little romp-ette through the world of culture? Still happy with it? Or are you perhaps thinking that you might prefer a bumper
Take a Break
magazine to that Booker longlist? Hmm? Or maybe not. You’re free to be whoever you want to be, and neither I, nor anyone else, should ever be able to judge you. On which note . . .

^*
boils kettle for jelly, cocks ear for arrival of like-minded friend, whacks on telly, shouts over the opening bars of the
Strictly Come Dancing
theme tune
^*
It’s time for my weekly dose of VERY HIGH CULTURE. Who’d rather be at the opera? NOT MEEEEEE!

Blimey, MDRC. That’s what I have to say to you. Or maybe ‘Gorblimey’, if you’re a Cockney builder from the Victorian era (never say that I don’t make an effort to speak your language). Be it ‘Blimey’ or ‘Gorblimey’ – we’ve only gone and romped through very nearly a whole book together. Yes, we’re now drawing our adventure to a close. Like a majestic galleon sailing into port, or a fine brass band reaching a climactic crescendo – we’re damned nearly home. I think we all deserve a hearty pat on the back.

Please know, my dear chum, that it has been nothing but a pleasure and a joy to spend this time with you. There’s no one for whom I’d rather have written. I do so hope you’ve enjoyed your stay in my literary mansion. But it’s not quite goodbye. Not yet. Because our final Pit Stop wouldn’t be complete without a farewell round of our most intriguing tick-box game. You know the drill; please tick if you have achieved any of the following: