Total eclipse of the art

There's going to be an eclipse tonight. Apparently the moon will turn red (or possibly blue, I can't remember which). I might make an effort to get out of my chair after Match of the Day, move to the window and peer out, though I probably won't bother. I know I should be buoyant and enthused by this celestial extravaganza, but there are mitigating circumstances. With virtually the entire population of southern Britain, I scurried down to Cornwall for the 'astronomical highlight of the century', the proper eclipse of 1999. It took about three days to get there, trundling down the A30 in my mate's crappy old Honda Civic, followed by a night sleeping in a field. With chilling inevitability, the day of the eclipse saw a solid bank of grey cloud stretching from Land's End to the Tamar and all points between, so you couldn't actually see the sun. Hmmm. Undaunted and casting aside our now-useless 'eclipse sunglasses', we climbed over a large fence and scaled a mountain of spoil from a china clay pit, the only high ground available above the featureless Cornish terrain.

We found a good spot, it got dark for a minute or so, we all 'whooped' (well some of us did), and then it got light again. Bit of a disappointment all round really, though there was some cheer when we discovered that Eastenders, in their wisdom, had decided to pre-record an episode with Ian Beale supposedly in Cornwall on the day (to propose to someone, if memory serves me right), using archive footage from an eclipse somewhere else in the world where you could actually see the fucking sun. Heh. It was poor old Patrick Moore I felt sorry for; not taking any chances, the be-monocled stargazer had pre-booked his hotel room in 1958. Now that's what I call a let-down.

Comet Hale-Bopp was nice though.




Comet Hale-Bopp, yesterday.


Anyway today I had a wander down the South Bank, full of the joys of Spring. The number of 'human statues' along this stretch of the riverbank has increased exponentially to reach plague proportions, with rival statue cartels battling hard to get the best pitches. In my humble opinion, this has to be the lowliest of the street-entertainment franchises on offer. At least the assorted jugglers and musicians clogging the Queen's highway in this part of town have some discernible talent; these silver-sprayed twats seem to think that they deserve a financial reward for keeping very still and occasionally moving very slowly. Don't, repeat don't, give them money; they'll only blow it on WD40.

And so on to St Paul's Cathedral (to see The Duke of Wellington's tomb - he really did have a magnificent conk), then back across the Wobbly Bridge and into the Tate. I like this place - always good for a laugh, and not just at the direst excesses of 20th century art. Its wonderful to see people just sitting staring at a blue piece of canvas, trying to explain hidden meaning to a bored, restless partner who just fancied popping in for a cup of tea and a bun.

But I suppose its all subjective, that's what makes art enjoyable. Having said that, some of the artists who's stuff now hangs revered and resplendent in the Tate really were just taking the piss.




Picasso's Bowl of Fruit, Violin and Bottle: what a cunt.


Not for me, that one. But I do enjoy the mischievous and the downright fun; I really like Gilbert and George's cheeky murals, for example, and its hard not to love Warhol or Roy Lichtenstein (who, incidentally, has a sandgrouse named after him), or the art intelligentsia's current flavour of the month, graffiti master Banksy. I just know what I like, and it doesn't consist of squiggles, wonky lines or random splodges.


Bet Brian Sewell's shitting himself.



This week's celebrity spots
None. So instead some West Ham news. As I'm sure you're well aware from my increasingly desperate and frantic screed on the subject, this season has been a fiasco; doomed to relegation and humiliated by teams like Reading, Chesterfield and Watford, with inadequate, overpaid players in rehab for gambling addiction, inadequate, overpaid players on bail for assault, endless injuries to new players and the club facing a crippling points deduction for fielding ineligible Argentine flops. It simply can't get any worse. But this story did raise a laugh in the midst of the gloom. Earlier this week, Upton Park was evacuated after a mysterious white powder was sent through the post to doom-faced chairman Eggert Magnusson; staff not unreasonably assumed that a fan had finally seen enough and had flipped, deciding to wipe out the club via the medium of anthrax. But no. It turns out that the rogue powder was, in fact, bath salts; these were sent (I kid you not) by a kindly Greek monk, who had seen poor old Eggert slumped in despair after yet another thrashing and thought he needed a good, long soak. You couldn't make it up.


Recommendations
With the 'plucky' Hammers now 1/25 (TotalBet) to go down, I can't face further footballing bets. The sight of that was enough to drive me over the edge. Having said that, we'll probably beat Spurs tomorrow (11/5, Bet365) now our fate's more-or-less guaranteed. Especially if our agents manage to feed them lasagne again.

On to cheerier matters. Tonight saw the start of Comic Relief does Fame Academy. A diabolical show, which I'm delighted to say I mostly missed. Shaun Williamson's the 2/1 favourite; sorry Barry, no chance, you're too good. The public never votes for the semi-talented in trash like this. My pick is Colin Murray at an enticing 10/1 (William Hill), who is on just the right side of atrocious, which is where you want to be for celebrity talent-show dominance.

Echogram will be big: trust me.