Killing the Emperors Read Free

crap. Explain Hirst to your husband.’
    Mary Lou sighed. ‘If I must. Ellis, you know about the YBAs.’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Oh, stop it, Ellis,’ said Amiss. ‘I know you’re a fogey but now you’re sounding like an octogenarian judge.’
    Mary Lou patted her husband’s hand. ‘The Young British Artists, hon. Hirst and Tracey Emin and so on. The ones who made BritArt big business over the last couple of decades.’
    ‘Oh, them! Yes, of course. Emin’s that dreadful woman who made a fortune from her filthy bed.’
    ‘That’s the one, darling. Complete with empty vodka bottles, condoms, tampons, and much else you’d rather not think about before dinner.’
    ‘Or even afterwards,’ said Pooley.
    ‘The egregious Tracey specialises in what you might call the cartography of the knicker stain,’ said the baroness grimly. ‘They were presenting that sort of trash as art in a hundred art colleges years ago, but Emin was so noisy and shameless she attracted attention. And, of course, the vandals of the art world took her up. They like them loud and disgusting. It’s épater les bourgeois all over again. Only this time it’s the smug, well-heeled, liberal establishment doing the épatering.’
    ‘Emin’s a fame whore, Ellis,’ said Mary Lou patiently. ‘And very successful at it. She sells her horrid pointless installations and crude drawings by providing a complementary narrative of confessional and self-revelatory bullshit. She’s also been smart about becoming pals with existing celebrities, and aspiring celebrities flock to be photographed with her. She became a Conservative supporter just as it appeared inevitable they’d be getting into government and the prime minister is so keen to seem cool that he declared himself a fan and asked her to provide Number 10, Downing Street, with an artwork to give it a bit of “edge.”’
    Pooley groaned.
    ‘I read about that,’ said Amiss. ‘A neon sign flashing More Passion in scruffy handwriting, wasn’t it?’
    ‘Yep.’
    ‘I’d have preferred it if it said Smaller Government ,’ said the baroness gloomily. ‘Or Lower Taxes . Or Fiscal Continence . Or Why don’t you meddling little Napoleons just piss off and leave me alone? ’
    Mary Lou laughed. ‘You probably have the same politics as she does. These days she seems passionate mostly about tax rates. She threatened to leave the country when the fifty percent higher rate came in.’
    There was a long sigh from Pooley. He leaned forward and picked up his glass. ‘It’s enough to drive even me to drink. Don’t tell me More Passion was paid for from our taxes?’
    ‘No, hon. It was a gift that’s been arbitrarily valued by the media at a quarter of a million, thus enabling artistic luvvies to cry that Tracey is a true patriot. Mind you, she produces plenty of neon signs, and having one in a prominent position in Number 10 should at least treble their value. Probably helped her become Professor of Drawing at the Royal Academy.’
    ‘Can she draw?’ asked a depressed Pooley.
    ‘A bit. Not well. It doesn’t matter. She’s on her way to becoming Dame Tracey. Or even Lady Emin.’
    The baroness winced. ‘We’ve already got enough vulgarians in the Lords. Mind you, I suppose she deserves credit for exercising some decorum in her Downing Street choice. I remember two of her earlier neons that asked respectively Is Anal Sex Legal? and Is Legal Sex Anal? Now those would certainly have been edgy, especially when the PM was entertaining ayatollahs.’
    She sighed. ‘Mind you, they didn’t even have the virtue of originality. In the seventies, another pretentious but more talented git called Bruce Nauman produced a neon light that said Run From Fear/Fun From Rear. However, I digress. Let’s get back to Hirst, who was the leader of that particular artistic pack. He knew how to fleece credulous halfwits. He first hit the headlines when his piece involving maggots and flies feeding off the head of a dead cow