I spent most of the day around Trafalgar Square. Went into Cass Arts and spent nearly 4 quid which I can't afford, on markers. Then I popped into the NPG for a while, and saw the new Julian Freud. It didn't do a lot for me, but, although I like his work, it never really does excite me much, despite all the 'greatest painter of our time' stuff...I was taken by a painting I'd not noticed before, of John Tavener in a creative trance, by Michael Taylor. Conventional, but with a strong spiritual buzz.
I moved on to Canada House where intense anti-terrorist frisking is still being practised, by a woman who called me 'Sir' throughout. There were big lush watercolours and constructions by one Sarindar Dhaliwal; very exotic, organic stuff.
Then through the not-long-for-this-world market, past the T'ai Chi-ing people, into St Martin's Crypt, where there's a little exhibit of what they plan to do to the place. It will be light, bright, and lovely, although I like my churches dark, mysterious and showing their age, personally. It has to be done,to save the building,really, and I think it will be pleasant, but no longer numinous, I fear.
I was starting to feel jaded, but forced myself to go to the ICA and see the Beck's Futures Show. which made me grumpier still. Yes, most boring EVAH. I rather liked Luke Fowler's cod documentaries, but I don't know why they're in a gallery. It was all mostly harmless but dull...
Then, as it was free, I looked at some sculptures, etc. by Michael Rizzello, who designed a lot of coins, public statues, etc, in the Mall Gallery. Very skillful, often quite attractive, if a bit hollow...
Weird, broken journey home with a befuddled, possibly insane bus driver. Had to get on and off three times. He really didn't seem to know the route, for starters. Got talking to an old lady (who on her outward journey, had been turfed off the bus because it had somehow managed to hit and demolish a rogue wheelie bin).
Best uses of 'fuck' in a non-sexual context:
In Fowler's What you see is where you're at he used that cool clip of crazy old RD Laing chastising a young critic in his lovely treacly brouge 'for your presumption and fucking cheek...'
Then there's the immortal 'Wotta fuckin' rotter!' from the Sex Pistols' TV debut.
To swear well, you need a rich general vocabulary, that's what makes most of today's rudery so depressing.