Ridiculous Anachronism
Last week my jumped up chauffeur got elected to the Royal Academy. I just hope he does not expect me Alan Measles his god, surrogate father, commanding officer and all round boss man and inspiration to show him one iota more respect. Just because a bunch of slightly sozzled old daubers have taken a shine to his particular brand of handicraft-based attention seeking doesn’t mean he has gone up one millimetre in my estimation! Has he read my resume? Do the words ‘rebel leader’ mean nothing to him?
I feel let down. I have nutured that lad, given him the priceless benefit of my streetfightin’ wisdom and how does he thank me? He goes off to la di dah art college and expresses himself all over. It ain’t natural. The thought of it makes me come over all excluded white working class. First it was the Turner Prize, which was felt all over the manor as a slap in the face to the good, almost honest, always hard, sometimes working, dysfunctional family values of his spiritual guides and mentors. We tried to deal with the dressing up business but the more we punished and humiliated him for it the more he seemed to enjoy it. So we took it in our stride offered to pay for a boob job and nice femme tattoo did he thank us? Did he fuck. Now he has gone and weazled himself into this palace of ponciness up west. I mean if he wanted to join a club I’d have taken him down my boozer, the Bearpit. The only one wearing a medal round his neck down there is Norman and he’s the pub Rottweiller.
I thought I had schooled the lad right. After a lifetime living in my shadow any right thinking member of the awkward squad would have come over all queasy just going west of Charing Cross road on the Number 19. Before we know it he’ll be cosying up to all those skinny women with expensive fixed grins and doodling on napkins for charity. I despair!
Heaven knows where all this will end up. Lord Grayson Perry RA winning the Nobel prize for handbag designing, playing the banjo and singing a duet with Princess Katy Middleclass at Nelson Mandela’s funeral, forming a political party with Jamie Oliver, Brian Cox and Clare Balding and taking over the country!!!
Grayson my son I beg yer, remember yer roots or if my name ain’t Alan Sugar…I mean Measles I’ll never let you cuddle me again.
AM
