People are crazy. As I write I am looking at a youngish, largish woman who has squeezed her ample thighs into a pair of skin tight wet-look leggings. She looks like a bloated corpse wrapped in a bin bag. She's also wearing a snap back baseball cap with cat ears on it.
At this stage I should probably point out that I am propping up the bar at a private viewing at a swanky gallery in Mayfair. My girlfriend's sister works there and invites us to these dos. Previously I'd have hated gatecrashing a do with a load of arty types, on principle more than anything else, but having turned up to a couple now I must admit that I really enjoy them. Not for the art so much (artistic subtleties such as the variation between an oil painting and a bronze sculpture are somewhat lost on me) but for the people. I love watching the people. This being Autumn/Winter 2016, leather trousers are very much in vogue. I understand the appeal of leather trousers as much as the next man, but when they are worn by a woman in her 50s (I'll be generous) who has skin like an iguanas scrotum, they somewhat lose their lustre. Honestly, some of the people here are less mutton dressed as lamb and more last night's kebab passing as a new born lamb.
But enough of my bitter observations. Heaven knows I'm blessed with neither looks nor fashion sense. As I said earlier, I'm hardly a connoisseur, but this exhibit is really rather good. It's a selection of pieces by Barney (or Barry?) someone. There are two aspects to the display: an number of chaotic drawings of a single word written in cursive script over and again, 'mine', 'hope', 'triumph' etc. and some marvellous sculptures of animals made from tiny, shaped ceramic tiles. The centre piece of this is an 8ft Polar Bear and it is simply wonderful. All the animals are lined up en convoi, as if traipsing towards the Ark. The juxtaposition is excellent, as you have the huge polar bear facing a tiny snow rabbit, which is about 18 inches high. Forming a rearguard is my own personal favourite, a slouching brown bear. I have always had an affinity with bears, as anyone of my school chums will testify, but even an objective viewer will be able to appreciate how a faceless, scaly blob can appear as a mischievous, cuddly and even rather cute little bear.
I enquire as to the price. "£48,000" my friend replies, "ex VAT".
"Harrumph" I muttered, taking a big swig of my beer, which I am happy to report, was complimentary.
A large gentleman in a tweed trench coat, tartan troos, crimson Dr Martin's and a bright red trilby meanders past. How I'd dearly love to have so much money or confidence to be able to dress like an actual clown and be thought cool.
I circulated a little more, amazed at the dichotomy of the arty, edgy types, who manage to fight so hard against being cool that they become the very thing they disdain and the monied "Dahlings" who are so determined to be seen as glamorous and hip they'd smear creme patissiere through on their faces if they heard it was the latest anti-ageing technique. As I loiter, a very cool looking young man in smart blue macintosh and Harry Potter glasses is talking to a friend. He's wearing very tired black jogger bottoms and beaten up trainers. I stand slightly gobsmacked. I'm not even allowed to wear that sort of thing to bed.
I feel I'm doing these people a disservice. Here I am, slating them for being odious, when I've turned up to gawk like a Victorian freak show punter. I attended the event willingly enough, and am looking forward to the next one immeasurably. Incidentally, if the exhibition is on again I do recommend it. The pieces are excellent and the people, they are simply jaw-dropping.