Struggle

So there I was strolling down fancy old Kings Road fighting a not-very-Chelsea-urge for MacDonalds, wondering which gallery to head for as I was in town and felt like learning something. Then, right there before me was the new Saatchi Gallery. Gulp.

Now, I really, really struggle with modern art, but don't feel I can make a meaningful comment unless I at least try to engage with it. This was the moment. I went in.

The work was horrible–so ugly and distressed. I might have completely misinterpreted it, but it didn't make me want to look at it long enough to find out - the key problem I have with work which rejects beautifully crafted aesthetics. Each comment was about being shackled, mocked and bruised. That makes me really sad. We know life is tough, we all have battles and hear about many of these in headlines every day, but something makes us keep going. It's that I want to see on the walls – the thing that keeps us moving, refusing to take 'no' for an answer.

I felt injustice that artists occupying this significant wall space are granted license to pick us up in our struggles, put us in a deeply hopeless space and leave us there. I read on these walls a massive scorn for beauty, and hope. It appears to be unfashionable to believe in anything. I wished for a playmate who could have distracted me with some inappropriate Carry On gags when nausea kicked in.

One extraordinary exhibit was in the basement – an oil slick that caused a disorientating and intriguing reflection which, in context, was quite thought provoking.

Clever, but the fumes of burnt engine oil clung to my nostrils and increased my nausea. And the warden tried to chat me up. Difficult. I had to leave.

Anyone know any good jokes?

{Today's Soundtrack: Radio 4 - just a minute}