It's great when you're Tate, yeah.

Today I really can't write, but will fight through regardless. I went to see Martin Kippenberger at the Tate Modern, on the recommendation of my artist friend Collie. I thought perhaps it would provide an insight into the febrile workings of his own mind, but I'm none the wiser for the experience. Kippers was prolific in his short time on earth, though it strikes me as a tad cheeky to get an assistant to churn out a sizeable chunk of your stuff, no matter. I feel I should be providing some pithy commentary on the retrospective, but I'm a bit tired after walking the dog this morning, and nothing profound is leaping to mind. I do think though, I should take a few self portraits of me in me large grundies as this look really rocks. In the end, the Members' bar proved far more gratifying, especially after three glasses of a very nice Clare Valley Reisling, and golly don't I sound poncey. Despite Artic winds, the sun was actually shining as you can see, and provided an artful backdrop to our artless boozing. Next week I think I'll drink my way around the Bauhaus thing; art and alcohol, such delightful bedfellows.

B