I took part recently in the annual festival in Hay-on-Wye. You could tell there were large numbers of radical young thinkers present by the prevalence of rings in their noses.[pullquote]You could tell there were large numbers of radical young thinkers present by the prevalence of rings in their noses. [/pullquote]was put up in a very nice early Nineteenth Century house with a magnificent garden. The art in the house, which I imagine was rented mainly to visiting intellectuals, was interesting. Prominent as I entered by bedroom was a work by Gilbert and George, the self-publicists, also known by some as artists, who have made a name from adolescent transgression. This great work consisted of the following words in red and black on a white ground:
Gilbert and George say -:
On the wall opposite was a pencil original of a strip cartoon by a British artist. It had five drawings, the first of them a close up of part of a man’s face, with the following words pasted on: Fuck… fuck… fucker…
Then came a picture without words of a dog sniffing at the bottom of a door from the outside. There followed a drawing of an ugly man loading the double barrel of a shotgun, saying ‘Fuckin’ dead fucker.’ The fourth picture was a close-up of the same man’s face, with little rectangular-lensed spectacle. He was saying ‘Cunt fuckin’ dead cunt.’
The final drawing is of the man’s face contorted with hate, shouting ‘Shu your fuckin’ row fuckin’ dog else dead fuckin’ cunt dog too!’ In the bathroom was a stained-glass representation of a woman masturbating herself. In the sitting room was a reproduction of a modern artist’s work whose works sells for millions and even tens of millions. On a white ground were the following words:
The reason this kind of art will continue is the reason why Macbeth continued his career of murder. If the art were to cease, the critics, collectors and curators would stand revealed as fools or worse; the vulgarity would no longer be seen as a sign of sophisticated open-mindedness but as the adolescent desire that it is to shock adults. Worse still, prices would fall, and who wants to lose millions? The last time I spoke at the Hay Festival, I shared a platform with the art critic of one of our broadsheets. He said that London was now at the ‘cutting edge’ of world art activity. I said that all that activity was not worth one small picture by Memling.
The Hay Festival was once a minor literary event called the Hay Book Festival. It has since become a major socialist bean-fest. Presumably its new, shortened title proclaims its significance beyond the mere world of books. Extracts from speeches delivered at Hay are often published in left-wing newspapers as momentous commentaries on our times. Lionel Shriver is popular in left-wing circles because her novels (the most recent ones, anyway) constitute oblique attacks on traditional family values, a long-time target of international Marxism.
Hay on Wye is the town of my hill-farmer father and his father going back many generations. In the 60’s land and property was cheap and magic mushrooms in abundance growing in fields. The town of my Christian ancestors was to become a playground for new age Buddhists, dope smoking hippies, transvestites (sex changers – April Ashley) and homosexuals. It became like a hippy suburb of San Fransico.
Some of the new comers tried hill farming and most failed – too much like hard work.
I only go to Hay out of season and there I look to the hills, fells and sheep and cattle. The hands of my christian ancestors built that town only to be mocked by idiots that will never suffer hardship.
Sadly I lost a cousin to a form of cancer nearly always confined to homosexuals and I remember him as a young boy who was corrupted by evil men who live today in trendy houses and some with wives and kids.