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DEAR TONY | ||||||||
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I tell you what Tony that lottery has saved our effing bacon. We get the praise for having reinvigorised the arts landscape when the bulk of the cash has come from the lotto. Nice one, eh? The other day I was looking down the list of what’s happened in the arts in the ten years since we’ve had lottery cash: two billion in England alone! Museums keep moaning about being broke but bloody nora it’s been Christmas every day since those numbered balls started flying. And they’ve all had a slice what with new this, new that, new extensions and new stuff to hang in them. If that tight Scottish bastard mate of yours had had to pay for this lot it would never have happened. But still they whinge! Their appetite for cash is insatialable. The only reason I was looking into all this was because some nancy boy from one of the job creation schemes has been on the blower because he noticed how we've been siphoning off lottery dosh to settle bills normally paid out of tax. I didn’t admit it of course. My view is what does it matter which pot it comes from. Besides, there’s bound to come a time when museums have all had their shiny new wings, wheelchair lavatories, patios, damp coursing and double glazing all through. As I see it the problem is that museums keep buying more and more stuff only so they can put it in store. Eventually we’ll either have to build even more bloody museums or force them to be choosier. Of course if it were up to me I’d tell them that if they want more money they should sell off all that stuff we’ve never seen and are never likely to see because it’s not entertaining anyone stuck down in the cellar. Who’d know it had gone except them? Nobody else would give a monkey’s. I like to keep my little peepers on things so I popped across to the National Picture Gallery in my lunch time the other day to see an exhibition which I’d read a write up about in the evening rag. It’s about a painter from a while back called Raffles. The director there’s another one who’s always up for more lolly. He’s just opened a new entrance which made me shudder because it reminded me of the Co-op’s crematorium in Cheetham Hill. It seemed to me there was nowt wrong with his other entrance. Anyway, he’s got to start thinking straight. I was shocked I can tell you. First off it cost nearly a tenner to get in! It’s lovely work but nine fucking quid is taking the piss if you ask me when we give them so much to be open for nowt. How many folk fiddling benefits can afford that? Then to add insult to injury I was told that I couldn’t go in straightaway because there were too many people in already so I’d have to wait in a line for half an hour. “I’m the arts minister and I’m in a rush,” I said, pulling rank in my teacher’s voice. And the ticket woman said to me “That’s what they all say Gertie, now wait over there behind the rope.” Nine quid to stand in a queue! They should organise it better so that everyone can get in on the spot. It must put people off. Then what happens? I finally gets in and can’t see a bleeding thing because it’s more packed than a Cup Tie at Boundary Park. It’s ridiculous though Tony. They really ought to encourage fewer people. All the time I was trying to muscle in there were folk pushing me aside. All of them were white and well-dressed too and no one under forty, not a black face for miles. Back in my office I got the director straight on the blower. And did I give him what for! “What’s all this caper,” I said laying it on the line. “Nine quid and queues for something you can’t see. And where’s the ethnic minorities?” “It’s a great success,” he said smarmy as you will. “The crowds are regrettable but the extra cash will enable us to stay open seven days a week, which is more than the money you give us allows us to do.” I told the cheeky streak of piss in no uncertain terms that the next time I go I want to see some smiling black faces, steel bands and limbo dancers livening things up and samosas in the canteen. Then I hung up. I was reporting on this at the weekend to my old pal Pickles in the Cheshire Cheese and he told me I’d got it wrong. ”Look Ezzie,” he said, “Raffles is fine but he’s not for me and you. You’re either interested in art or you’re not. And we’re not, right. If folk want to pay a tenner to queue up and see nowt that’s their poison. Me and you’d rather go up Belle Vue for the Aces. So what’s your problem?” Well Tony, it’s quite obvious to me what the problem is. The Aces don’t get 25 million smackers every year from Gordon! By the way, just a tiny word. If you’re deliberising over the date of the next election try to keep it until after the end of May because Connie’s dead keen for us to do Can again next year. Of course, we’ll make out we’re batting all guns blazing for the British film industry. | ||||||||
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Dear Tony | ||||||||
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MY ARTS! All of this site is | ||||||||
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