are fields and fake grass pitches, darker stretches beyond where they argue about new housing estates, badger culls and long lane potholes. What would Newman have made of the court juxtaposition, my poor boy gallery walk? He’s up in town but I can’t deal with the RA crowds, the polite shuffling and the hum of all those lungs and throbbing gristle and I’m not hip or rich enough for a private view invite. I saw the work twenty years back, when my eyes were young and nobody bar students, teachers and afternoon drifters visited art galleries. I’ll coast on my hazy memories. I’ll find some silent, lonely spot in the stands and gaze at the zips.
