Mills & Koons by Chris Poolman

I. Setting the Scene. 2013. Digside.

Digside, Birmingham, 2013. After the coalition government had recently introduced The Art & Promiscuity Act in May 2012, the UKʼs cultural landscape had changed. New legislation had been passed after sneaky government campaign managers had included 1 details of the policy in the Conservativeʼs 2010 manifesto. Draconian cuts.

The legislation prevented arts funding from being awarded to anything that could be deemed sexual in nature, thereby eliminating most of what had passed for contemporary art output up 3 until then. The AXIS (Anything X-rated or could be Interpreted as Sexual) database was set up to name and shame artists who showed any deviation in their work or materials. The 4 organisationʼs cruel and demeaning website gave convicted artists a number and consigned 5 them to pay a monthly subscription for the rest of their lives in order to see blurred images of their old work appear on a daily slideshow. The subscription meant they also received multiple taunting emails by heartless arts admin staff, joyfully requesting CV updates on a weekly basis. 6

The powers-that-be held the contemporary art world in an Epstein Drill like grip and the mood in the countries once thriving studio network was as perpetually grim as the day the rates bill arrived, or when ʻThe Wireʼ box sets ran out. The effect on emerging art practice was drastic, with the depravity of the countries Art schools now being replaced with hoards of fee-paying goody two-shoed A level students, demanding 7 to be taught ʻProper Artʼ. Life drawing was banned and macramé was reintroduced as a 8 second year module. Gone were the candlelit naked lectures on continental philosophy and 9 in were pencil drawing and using a ruler . The effect the law would have on future art audiences could not be estimated

and the act

The text had been strategically placed within a campaign picture of David and Samantha Cameron frolicking in a North Oxfordshire wheat field. On magnification in photoshop full details of the legislation could be faintly made out, interwoven between the prime ministerʼs chest hair and Samanthaʼs bra strap.

Left off the Hagley road, near Bearwood. 10% off all Vajazzles.

Even a Lisa Milroy painting is arousing if you look at it long enough.

www.you-think-you-can-avoid-us-but-weʼll-find-you.com

Or until they were photographed at the back of Art Review, whatever was sooner.

Not to be confused with the BCU staff health and safety programme of a similar name.

A gallery - Martin Creed + Ceal Floyer = Proper Art.

A misprinting of the Viva Voce criteria had led to bizarre Toga parties at some universities in the mid 90ʼs.

Some tutors of an Old School persuasion were the first to get round this student tendency by setting compulsory Anthony Gormley nude casting modules, but this was immediately clamped down on by the Government with the introduction of the ʻVaseline taxʼ.

At least not by using standard Arts Council evaluation criteria documentation.

was set to decimate the regional art world , with teams of inspectors being sent to patrol galleries, studios, museums and spare bedrooms across the country. Inspectors needed to answer two main questions: Is it sexy? And am I turned on? A yes to either of these would 12 mean instant closure to the project they were visiting. Artists caught making sex related work faced heavy jail sentences, and were even punished for Arts Council applications that contained too many innuendos. In one landmark case, a new media art collaborative duo were given eight years each because their continual references to ʻclose communityʼ in a digital research application was deemed to be inciting an 13 orgy. However rumours were abound on artists social media sites like Schwitter and ACE-Book, that In Birmingham, Englandʼs second, third or fourth city, a surreptitiously saucy art scene had been created in defiance of the legislation. Coded messages were thought to have been 14 circulated at private views by members of emerging artist led organizations and the city was emerging as the key player in the national resistance to the new law – the sexual art backlash had begun, and this time it wasnʼt just a night of film at VIVID. 15

My name is Jenny le Brun and I was a local news reporter who had recently moved to 16 Birmingham. Looking for my big break I was desperate to meet the local art community and uncover all the sexy details of this beguiling art scene. Who or what was Crowd Sex? What really went on upstairs in that mezzanine bit at Eastside Projects? Did The Lombard Method really initiate artists in residence in rooftop sauna and jacuzzi ceremonies? What was the melted substance in a Companis baguette? Was AAS actually a sex code? Where were 17 Randy Union sourcing all of their wood? How did Trove get to use Curzon St station? Little did I know what would await me. Who could have for-seen the perversion, the depravity, the obsession with Martin Boyce? I went out to find the truth, but ended up finding a whole lot more. This is my story. II. P-Nuts I had made my first contact by following the conversation emerging on #idigdigside on Schwitter. In amongst the comments about the altering of the location of the vegetable 11

Which had over the years increased audience numbers by gradually sexing up their programmes, enticing a new niche, non-art audience to private views, largely by showing work that was akin to late night German television. The extent of this sexing up could be illustrated by the fact that Taboo Sex cinema near Moor St had been successful in many Arts Council Applications and was now listed in Art Monthly as being a ʻhotbedʼ for young emerging European film based work.

Although a touring exhibition of Tony Cragg sculpture was allowed to re open after a wobbly bit of pink plastic was mistakenly thought by an inspector to be the vibrating component of a ʻrabbit headʼ dildo.

They were assigned different jails, with cruel prison wardens forcing them to do Mail Art. Having become overly reliant on digital communication, they had never encountered stamps before, and would fail even to replicate anything in the style of the Italian not-art movement, often placing their stamps inside the envelope with their letters and licking the ink off the address. Their collaborative practice quickly petered out, each blaming the other and they were rumored to be considering doing a PGCE.

Although some of Eastside Projects press releases were deemed to be genuinely incomprehensible.

Follow me on twitter @JounalistJenny.

People do.

During The Event ʻ07 various attempts to burn down the building by a coach load of extras from the musical SʼExpress were thwarted by a team of undercover council officials dressed as scarecrows.

samosas in the new Costcutter, the permanent installation of an ice sculpture based theme park within Fazeley Social Café and a new pigeon training school opening on bend 5 in Teamworks race track, a regular poster seemed to be persistently posting leading messages about the sexy nature of the Birmingham Art World - and its private view food content. The guy went under the name of P-Nuts. His profile photo was, in the current climate, a bit risqué to say the least, as it looked like (though it was hard to be sure) that it was a masked picture of a (I presumed) semi naked him, with his penis inserted in to a bag of cool blue Doritos. The brazen nature of this photo meant that he must have been a key guy in the sexual art backlash so I arranged to meet him at the rear of the old East-End warehouse near the Paragon Hotel, North Digside. As I walked past Be My Chip the only person I could see had his head quite worryingly, deep in to a street bin. Assuming this to be an artworld thing, and not wanting to arouse suspicion, I went to the pair of jeans protruding from the plastic bin cover and coughed loudly. ʻErm, excuse me but are you Mr P-Nuts?ʼ His head slowly emerged from the bin. ʻI, maybe, who might be asking?ʼ It was hard to hear him as he seemed to be chewing an old bit of nougat but I handed him one of my homemade laminated business cards. The laminating sheets were from Poundland and subsequently an irregular size; I waited awkwardly as P-Nuts struggled to fit the card in to his wallet. As I watched him struggle to bend the cheap, yet long lasting card, I realised that it was definitely P-Nuts by name, P-nuts by nature. Not only because this is what he appeared to live on, (he had a packet open in his back pocket) but also because he had very dry skin and smelt strongly of gone off salt when you got near him. Not that salt goes off mind you, but if it did, it would smell like P-Nuts. It was strangely arousing. He said he was going through the bins looking for salt heavy snacks. Fearing being exposed as a non-art worlder I added that I too was collecting bar snacks to complete a cashew nut installation. He looked at me, before offering me a cashew from the packet he had just retrieved from the bin. I took it saying I would use it in my installation. ʻYou work with food as wellʼ he said. ʻYesʼ, I replied, ʻfor the last two months I have been building a scale model of the twin-towers from cashew nutsʼ. P-Nuts seemed to approve of this and we shook hands. As we walked towards The Damp Cavern in the warm late evening sun, I found myself thinking that despite all the initial weirdness, there genuinely was something quite alluring about P-Nuts. I couldnʼt put my finger on it (and probably wouldnʼt want to) but there was definitely something I found attractive about him…it was tea-time though, and maybe I was just hungry. We were now nearly at International Stock and I was about to suggest a quick half in the Town Friar, but suddenly, as the smell from the abattoir filled the air, I looked round and saw that P-Nuts was scampering off towards Lombard st.

ʻSorry!ʼ he shouted back at me ʻGot to go! See you at VIVID tomorrow maybe.ʼ I nodded and held a wave. What a character. You didnʼt meet people like him in London, at least not everyday. I smiled to myself; this was going to be fun. And then, I donʼt know why, but when he had gone past the burnt out pub, I sniffed my hands. P-Nuts had sent a salty arrow in my direction and I was smitten already.

III. Triple A Space After a hectic Midlands day of openings (Coventry Art Space, Wolverhampton City Art Gallery and Stoke AirSpace Gallery), I bumped into P-Nuts at a fundraiser for the South Digside Super-8 Society. I was chatting absent-mindedly to someone Iʼd met that night who lent me some money for the suggested donation drink prices. We shared a vaguely remembered acquaintance and chatted mostly about Frieze reader demographics. However, as the night went on, I became distracted by the sight of P-Nuts across the gallery. He was standing alone, hardly moving, and staring straight at a miniature sausage roll which was perched on what looked like a disused plinth. The average age and income of a Frieze reader failed to live up to this intriguing sight, so I made my excuses and went over to talk to P-Nuts. As I got closer, I could see that his nose was quivering with excitement at the sight of the cheap sausage morsel. I was reminded of the Anthony Gormley beagle sculpture I saw recently and soaked up the familiar smell of gone off salt as it drifted towards me again. I stood there and observed. After five minutes of watching P-Nuts salivating, quivering, and possibly becoming aroused at the sight of processed meat, he turned to me and introduced himself again. I inquired as to what he was doing; he replied that he was a performance artist - of the culinary kind. His practice consisted of going to private views – he had been to six that week he boasted (often phoning up in advance to check what food was on offer) – and remaining alone by the buffet table staring at a single piece of food for the duration of the show. Guarding it, protecting it, imagining what he was going to do with it. It was all in his eyes. At the end of the evening he would place the item in his mouth and leave, without swallowing - apparently in defiance of the art market. He never explained to me comprehensively, just why this was in defiance of the art market, but he said it with the conviction of a Bedwyr Williams tweet so I took it at face value. Today his excitement was palpable; his collection didnʼt have a sausage roll like this. This one had Simon and Tom Bloor-esque patterns cut in to the puff pastry. I couldnʼt quite imagine a failed utopian vision of a sausage roll, but I concurred that I thought the whole project was really rather clever stuff and made sure that I nodded enthusiastically whilst continuing to nervously drink my warm San Miguel. The guy I was chatting to about Frieze had gone somewhere and I didnʼt really know anyone else at the opening so P-Nuts and I ended up chatting all night, albeit in between prolonged periods of him just staring at the Bloor roll. Another aspect of his performance would involve growling if anyone threatened to go near it. Such was his concentration that at one point, whilst still staring at the table he motioned to me with his eyes to mop a bead of sweat that

was running down his face. I dabbed his face with a serviette (in the nick of time as it was about to drop into the M&S salsa dip selection) and he looked at me with the sort of relief that you get after a Lux screening. I couldnʼt help it; I felt my heart melt a little. Maybe everyone was pissed, but most people seemed used to P-Nuts antics and actively seemed to ignore him. There was a lot of canoodling going on and cameras everywhere. How liberating was the Birmingham Art World I thought! You wouldnʼt get this in London. After the opening we ended up walking back to P-Nuts studio. I hadnʼt forgotten my mission and I was now feeling confident enough to ask him what he knew about the secret sexual art uprising in Birmingham. However, as he was storing a sausage roll in his mouth we just texted each other whilst we walked under the Viaduct and past the 6 car washes on the way to what we like to call ʻBus Station Boulevardʼ. He texted me saying that he hovered on the outskirts of the Birmingham Art World, and yes, he too, had heard rumours about strange things going on across Digside. One of his texts read: ʻIʼm also called the Nut-Licker or Salt Boy, and try 2 stay on the edge of things here. I no its been going on for a while. IMO, and it is only an opinion, the Birmingham art world were well aware of this before it came in. Tipped off methinks. Think about it. Ikonʼs Warholʼs Blowjob, ESP Fuck bibles, Randy Unionʼs underwear pole dancing night, VIVIDʼs adult video library. And you ainʼt seen what Taboo cinema are planning…ʼ Reader, if you are in possession of a clean mind then please stop reading now. Put the book down and walk away. Because the truth is that thereʼs not just one Dirty End in Digside. Thereʼs many. And they all have i-phones.

IV. The 500 Nibbles We arrived back at P-Nuts studio-cum-flat in the newly named North-East Lower Digside. It was a loft apartment in an old warehouse and if it wasnʼt for the Birmingham skyline we could have been in New York, or Coventry. Entering the apartment, I let out a small gasp. The scene that met my eyes was quite something. It was akin to an Andreas Gursky photo documenting a residency at a Greggʼs distribution centre. It was the Sealife centre without the fish, but all around me instead of tired brown carp and trout, there were plastic or paper plates with food on them, suspended in formaldehyde in the middle of glass tanks. Everything from mushroom vol-u-vents, vegetable pakoras, glacier cherries to cheese on sticks and homemade rock cakes had been frozen in time. It was already a comprehensive survey of private view nibbles – but beyond the living room, in what must have been the spare bedroom at some point, there was an elevated area where there were shelves and shelves of perfectly preserved, plated up meals, lit up like a Muntadas retrospective, and displayed with the care and panache of the cellar at the back of Davide 18 Roger Millerʼs Randy Union Wine bar . A brass sign was on the door - it read ʻThe Artistʼs Meal Collectionʼ. This was incredible! It 18

Unit 2 - bring own glasses.

must have been from the times that P-Nuts had blagged his way in to the Artistʼs meal, the hallowed and much prized invite that traditionally splits even the most connected social grouping. The meal was an inherently, often cringe inducing experience for all involved where everyone 19 who had helped set up the show, and occasionally their partners if numbers were short , 20 would attempt to make serious conversation about the themes of the show whilst pretending 21 to not be drunk. The night would usually develop either in to complete awkward silence or go on to become a full scale display of bravado by drunk local artists attempting to appear all 22 metropolitan in front of the international itinerant artist . Often there will be damning faint 23 praise of the programme of a rival gallery, complete elaboration on the potential of Birmingham as a cultural destination, the re-telling of a revealing, but not wholly accurate anecdote about a shared acquaintance with the exhibiting artist before accidentally smashing a glass of Rose in to someoneʼs main course whilst waiting for a specially ordered extra coriander naan bread to arrive. A full range of hot meals were here, a multitude of half eaten Baltis, Pizza Express dough balls, Moroccan lamb tagines, Quorn burgers and Jamaican curried goat, all kept fresh by an elaborate system of hydroponic pipes, pipettes and timers. To the side of the shelves there was even a specially made case with just 3 faggots floating in it, in what appeared to be an apparent homage to Jeff Koonʼs Three Ball Total Equilibrium. Below them it simply stated ʻZabludowicz Walsall 2011.ʼ All in all it was quite a sight. P-Nuts announced proudly that he had 421 different types of private view nibble collected from across the UK. He was working towards a piece called ʻThe 500 Nibblesʼ, with the artists meals collection being an unlimited edition he hoped that would one day attract a high price on the secondary art market, or could at least flog to Asda. All rescued food was saved temporarily from entering the art market, and then logged, photographed, and preserved in 24 bespoke display cases he had obviously had specially made by a trained artisan. As I returned to the living room to take in the enormity, and the meticulous taxonomy of P25 Nuts collection I could see in the reflection of an mdf and OSB display case housing a rotating rotisserie chicken from Tate Liverpool that P-Nuts was getting undressed, and taking

I later heard rumours of the DHL guy being invited to an Eastside after show soup off. Apparently Extra Special People were mislead in to thinking it was Mark Titchner and kept asking him to write down Black Sabbath Lyrics on the back of takeaway menus.

A painfully difficult skill that normally involves pretending that you know of an artistʼs work, who you actually have no idea of, in an attempt to avoid admitting that you have never been to the Chisenhale gallery, let alone know where PEER is.

If the showʼs a stinker.

Things like ordering the duck tongues from the special menu as a side dish, asking for a finger bowl or eating chicken wings by gnawing the bones vertically and then sucking the tendons until they twang in order to bring up a story about an exhibition they were involved with in France.

Or fabrication.

From the Moisture resistant MDF finish alone it was clear that this was the work of one of the many trained artisans at Mark James Framing.

Also featured were baked potato from Transmission gallery, two fried eggs and a kebab from Sadie Coles and Pease Pudding iced buns from the Baltic.

his clothes off quicker than a newly emerging performance graduate at a Fierce after party. Soon he was nearly naked right in front of me; his modesty covered by what appeared to be a 26 homemade Wotsit pocket thong. He asked me if I wanted to join him and motioned towards a special bra and pants made out of pork scratchings glued together with cheap sealant. Mesmerized by his thong, and slightly giddy in the salty atmosphere, I obliged and slipped on the impromptu bar-snack 2 piece and then turned to face P-Nuts. This was something I hadnʼt expected to be doing this tonight. I looked up at him. He was sweating and dripping like Richard Serra on a running machine. ʻWill you lie down for meʼ he asked whilst crunching on another wotsit. I couldnʼt help it. I knew I found him attractive but this was a little weird. Was this really normal in the art world? Nothing Iʼd read in the Jackdaw had prepared me for this, but I didnʼt want to blow my cover, so I did as he said and lay down on the carpet. As I did I felt a few of the scratchings crush as I lay there. Canʼt be Black Country I thought. He then crawled over to me and rather bizarrely began placing about 500 dry roasted peanuts on to my body with small blobs of his saliva. As he did this, he whispered in my ear ʻGendarmeʼ. He did so again - ʻGendarmeʼ. I suspected he was trying to say ʻJʼTaimeʼ - I Love You - but had got slightly confused. Having read Frieze the night before I took it as a Baudrillardian reference to a failed militarized state and thought nothing of it. In fact I felt it heightened the sense of an uneasy power dynamic between us by having the performer and participant sharing intimately the word ʻpolicemanʼ. I was already thinking that this was the direction Matthew Barney should have taken before he had got stuck in an exploration of milk chocolate goulash. I let P-Nuts continue this for a while longer before whispering back ʻYou canʼt love me P-Nuts youʼve only just met me. Would you mind getting me a glass of water?ʼ He looked at me and continued to lick and whisper. Now I was never a massive fan of performance art, but he was definitely in the zone. This really was Performance art with a capital P. I resolved to concentrate harder on the power dynamic thing. After about 20 minutes he was still going and I was starting to be thankful for the warmth provided by the chefʼs pass that he had installed between the kitchen and the living room. Crikey! This man sure was a flem-machine – with the delicate process of spittle and dabbing going on for nearly two hours. Finally, when he had applied the 500th nut, he stopped and stepped back with the sense of accomplishment that Carl Andre must have had on lining up his last brick. It was lucky I was still awake, as in an attempt not to doze I had been attempting to definitively name all the artists who shared places with their names. I had got to the stage of

Packets of original Wotsits with Tartizine were readily available from most cash and carries in the Digside area.

planning a touring exhibition that would show my top five in a show I had tentatively titled ʻThe Keith Coventry Showʼ, although on reflection pairing Patrick (Sutton) Caulfield with Marcus Coates (dʼazur) Grayson Perry (Barr) and Gavin Turk(ey) could be tricky…. P-Nuts was now looking at me with an exhausted expression. He looked shattered, but then bent down on his knees and stared at me straight in the eye. He said: ʻthere is something strange going on in the Birmingham Art World. It is quieter than usual. And by that I mean itʼs really quiet. I am not liked here so youʼre going to have to find out more and infiltrate the inner circles of the Birmingham Art World. I canʼt do it. Everyone here thinks I am slightly odd. They call me the ʻNut-lickerʼ. To my face. Youʼre new here; they donʼt know you. And I know just how weʼre going to do it.ʼ ʻOh, and could you help me write up this application for a 24 hour performance event in Cardiff later? Just canʼt seem to tie it in with the ʻyou and your workʼ section of the form.ʼ

VI. The Full HD P-Nuts plan was uncomplicated: I was to go in to full ʻback of Art Reviewʼ mode, put my leather boots and best lippy on and initiate a string of one-night stands with a gamut of 28 Birmingham artists. This was genius - and maybe it was the salt - but I agreed it was the only way that I could get the all the gossip from the key protagonists within the sexual art 29 30 backlash. Not from between the studio walls - but from between the sheets. I did feel a bit cheap about it all, but I had to also admit that I was incredibly aroused about the prospect of dating some of the many ʻhottiesʼ (male and female) that could be seen stalking the Digside conurbation. The fashion trends alone set them apart from other drab regional centres, with a prevailing theme for outlandish and daring statements to be worn with 31 just the right bit of slouchy, bed-sit arrogance. Whether it was a pashmina used as a 32 temporary bus shelter or mittens crocheted together with old copies of Variant , there was a resourcefulness that appeared way more advanced than Nottingham, and nothing like 33 Bristol. My major concern was that my scoop would be forever linked with my initial deception and I 34 would become known as the ʻArt Cougarʼ. I felt reassured though, that if any legal proceedings followed me, that I was covered by Artists Newsletter insurance, as a flat mate of 27

Memo to self - give Hayward touring a call.

No, not them.

Although the OSB alcoves at Randy Union were evidently a good place for some nookie.

Egyptian canvas naturally. Oppressed cycle chic was the current trend. This involved having bicycle clips pulling odd socks up above the trousers to knee height, paired with t-shirts stating slogans such as ʻI Survived Narrative Showʼ, ʻCanʼt we just stay in? or ʻCall this an opening? This is an opening.ʼ With a wingding graphic of a traffic light on amber.

There always seemed an abundance of these.

Although there was a garage on Heath Mill lane that was offering a free Banksy tint with every MOT.

Even though I was 23, the average age of artists in Birmingham was definitely proportionately younger compared to the rest of the country. A key reason for this was the 200 festivals a year which kept an easily distracted youth audience perpetually entertained, despite the poor travel links.

mine had a subscription to the magazine a couple of years ago which I had used to make 35 paper mache animals for a staff training event. A strange off shoot of the Art and Promiscuity Act was that Digside had now become quite a 36 free and liberal society that was now rife with artists and art workers frankly getting off with 37 one another, all over the place. It was like a heady mix of the early days of the Vienna Succession and a Rebecca Bibby Performance. Artists who had been prohibited from making or showing any work about sex instead satisfied the urge to collaborate and discuss Foucault by bedding as many partners as possible and sketching out tentative PhD abstracts together after foreplay. P-Nuts believed that if I got ʻup closeʼ to one or two people, they might reveal to us what is really going on. And then perhaps reveal all the codes that lay hidden in the artwork that was allowed to be shown. My first ʻconquestʼ was a fling with a local video artist. I met him at The Damp Cavern in south Digside. After chatting for an hour or two with Eddie about Art Monthly online, we headed towards his flat. Arriving back at his palatial North West Central Digside pad, he poured me a large glass 38 of brandy and Ribena . He certainly had quite a strange mix of out of date drinks but I as I 39 topped up my Brandy and Ribena with a large Gin and Vimto he quickly ran upstairs, excitedly emerging several minutes later with many large bags of film equipment. I was starting to think I should leave, or at least have downloaded Final Cut Pro for my Mac book, but after about 25 minutes and many Gin and Vimtos he had managed to direct the 40 eight on loan cameras and we were ready to get started. However, he then pulled out a large unfold-upable again A1 diagram of what he wanted us to do. Ostensibly it appeared that we were going to film a post-porn version of Douglas Gordonʼs 24 hour Psycho. He was going to be Anthony Perkins, I was to be the mother and Janet 41 Leigh. He had planned out in precise detail - shot by shot, scene by scene – what we were going to do: foreplay, missionary, doggy style, 5 minutes of foreplay in leopard skin buzz suits - 10 minute break. All in slow motion, imitating sex. Apparently it questioned the exploitation of the porn industry - I didnʼt really understand why, but I was really impressed by all the effort he had gone to. It all certainly sounded impressive and the cameras were top quality! After checking his lenses were all clean, a meticulous operation that took another 45 minutes, 35

Another story.

Albeit with the odd football hooligan.

The Old Crown had even opened up medieval love booths and a heated orgy tent to cater for peak lunchtime demand from the Custard Centre.

A Handsworth specialty.

In the gun quarter this is known as a ʻSpringhill Institute on the Beachʼ. From the Digside collective ʻVideos R Usʼ Unit which operated such clandestine opening hours many people thought it was a taxi rank office that Eastside Projects had set up to secure match funding from city radio cars to facilitate the upcoming ʻRoad Showʼ.

A teddy bear on a directors chair would play the part of Hitchcock and appear half way through the shower sequence.

he carefully placed a record on the turntable. He pressed play - and the performance began. It was an instrumental version of ʻLet's Get It Onʼ by Marvin Gaye. He began to move slightly unrhymically in front of the cameras - this was to be the intro to the film - and he slowly began to take off his shirt displaying a large, possibly homemade, screen printed, tattoo of Douglas 42 Gordon on his mid-drift. He then began to sing, looking me straight in the eye, gripping a modified childrenʼs microphone: I've been really tryin', baby Tryin' to hold back this feelin' for so long And if you feel like I feel, baby Then come on, Douglas Gor-don, Whoo, Douglas Gor-don Ah, babe, Douglas Gor-don Let's love, baby Douglas Gor-don, sugar Douglas Go-rdon Whoo-ooh-ooh I wonʼt bore you with the details of the rest of the evening, but suffice to say imitating sex, for 24 hours, in slow motion, was incredibly dull. I did list all the artists who had shops as names though, bizarrely enough it would seem that the art world fortunes of both Karla Black(s) and Ivan and Heather Morison(s) seemed inextricably linked to the sale of non food items and nectar points. 43

Anyway, eventually, after 16 hours of stop frame sex moves and a quick break to change outfits I felt if I had earned his trust, and was compelled to ask him in a very off-the-cuff way if he knew any thing about the Birmingham Sexual Art Backlash. He replied ʻWhat? No. The Birmingham Sexual Art Resistance…? – donʼt they organize The Event?ʼ and he shook his 44 head whilst frowning. This all took 1 hour 38 minutes but I could tell he was lying. The sustained shaking of his head and constant frowning reminded me of the transparency of Alistair Snookes bits to camera on the Culture Show. It was clear that he was making it all up and desperately trying to find something clever to say about Rodchenko. We spent another week in post-production but the next Sunday we were finished and I was 45 glad to see the daylight again . On the way out though, he pressed a piece of paper in to my hand. Luckily we were in normal time now as I donʼt think I would have taken it if we were still filming. I needed to get going and wanted to catch Lidl before it shut.

Missionary print will print most things. No questions asked.

If you need to roll over it can take some time I can tell you, but it did wonders for my back, which was a bonus.

I knew this because I was staring at the timer on camera 5 for at least half that time.

Besides the cameras had to be returned. If I had learnt one thing from my time there it was that you do not mess with Videos R U, especially if you need a cab late on a Friday.

We said our good-byes and I left. I gripped the piece of paper all the way home, only letting go once I was in the safety of P-Nuts flat. He was waiting up with a bag of quavers on the go. Spying the paper he lept up from the sofa eagerly awaiting a new piece of the jigsaw. Was this going to be the information we both needed? It was a scribbled note on the back of a piece of Randy Union flyer. On it was written: You_got_to_be_Gillick_to_win_it@hotmail.com Astonishing. Liam Gillickʼs email address. Maybe this is the missing clue? We immediately sat down at P-Nuts 48 inch Mac-book pro and drafted an email to Liam Gillick: It had to be the right tone. Dear Mr Gillick, Can I email you some images of my work? Do you know anything about whatʼs going on in Birmingham? Sexy sexy. Thanks. We clicked send and waited. Maybe Liam Gillick didnʼt answer his own emails and had a glamorous young assistant to do it? But 30 seconds later there was a ping. It was an email from Liam Gillick: Piss off. That wasnʼt the email we were hoping for; we sat disheartened for a couple of minutes, until another ping! Another email had arrived, also from Liam Gillick. This time it read: Send me the images though. Best, L. We looked at each other with excitement. Just what were we in to now?

VII. Jesmonite Dave

We knew we had to at some point try and interact with The Lombard Method after hearing rumours that they had been pioneering a new form of contraception - The Lombard Method: An abstinence rhythm based programme that calculated pregnancy chances on a square 46 footage of studio space used. Seeing a gap in the impoverished artist market and trying to show entrepreneurial spirit to the Arts Council they were launching a new Contraception App 47 on the i- phone and HTC format; it was also a zine. I was unsure how contraception based on square footage might work and wanted to know more, but this was the last thing on The Lombard Methodʼs mind. They actually were in a real pickle and if their last opening was anything to go by, it would be a sweet chilli and green 46

With the heady liberal atmosphere in Digside artist pregnancies were becoming the norm. This was having a drastic effect on two-year funding cycles, studio crèche facilities and crayon use.

An Endless Supply of Bambinos.

tomato type of pickle, layered with lashings of tzatziki. They had offered a residency - on the recommendation of some Birmingham Art World 48 elders - to an old Birmingham artist called Jesmonite Dave. He was one of the older generation of Birmingham artists, who although you rarely see, you know exist somewhere, as roundabouts or traffic junctions were often named after them. Jesmonite Dave had been ostracized from the Birmingham Art World many years ago now after an incident with lime wash and the BMAG tearooms and he now lived under a railway arch in Upper Lower Middle Digside, near Halfords. He was still involved in some things though and did a lot of work with the Ikon Youth programme, who had assumed he was the guitarist in Black Sabbath. Offering Jesmonite Dave a residency at the Lombard method was a big mistake. What was meant to be a two-week residency had now turned in to four months. This is part of the reason Jesmonite Dave had been ostracized before: his residences ran into years. No one had seen anyone from The Lombard Method for months as they were forced to sit and listen to Jesmonite Dave for days and days on end, with only falafel soup and chamomile tea for comfort. From our position, peering up from the street at a mirror on the top of a long stick through a gap in a broken window, we could see that Jesmonite Dave was holding court, sitting in a large chair with the ʻlittle Lombardioʼsʼ all sat in front of him. Since the BMAG tea rooms incident Dave only had one eye and so to compensate his operational left eye moved furiously from side to side as he talked: ʻIʼve been in Birmingham for 10,000 years. Iʼve seen it all - B16, Spectacle Gallery, Ikon Eastside 1, 2 and 3 - but the best time was the Pre-olithic age. Jesmonite was everywhere then - thatʼs why Iʼm called Jesmonite Dave. Iʼm the only one who survived the meteorite. All the other artists died when the meteorite hit Birmingham; theyʼve made a carpark now with their remains. Crushed ʻem up like Wolverhampton Art gallery flyers…the bastards.ʼ He sighed, ʻNone of it affected me though because I used to eat Jesmonite. They all used to say I was crazy - but Iʼve had the pleasure of living for 10 000 years in the Birmingham Art World now. All because I didnʼt wear a mask! Whoʼs laughing now? Suckers.ʼ He stood and beat a gnarled finger in to his chest. ʻI am who I am and Iʼm also made of Jesomite You ʻgetʼ me?ʼ Some Lombardios looked like they needed the loo. ʻQuestions. Come on donʼt be shy; I was at your level once.ʼ ʻWhat was it like back in 1610 Dave?ʼ asked one on the Lombardioʼs nervously. ʻWell, son, the Birmingham art world of 1610 was pretty much the same as it is nowʼ. ʻWhat was it like in 1867 Dave?ʼ said another. ʻWell, son, the Birmingham art world of 1867 was pretty much the same as it is nowʼ. ʻTell us about the Birmingham art world of 1457 Daveʼ piped up another Lombardio. 48

Spotted mainly on the second floor of IKON Brindley Place PVs.

ʻWell my dear, the Birmingham art world of 1457 was pretty much the same as it is now. During the Pre-olithic age though, the Birmingham Art World was an incredible place. There were 23 public caves, and 16 commercial Caves. In 50 years, I had 7 solo Cave showings, 34 group Cave showings and four large Cave residencies. You know what, the Staffordshire Hoard, theyʼre showing it all wrong - it was part of a larger installation with projections and sound Iʼm sure… Sorry, I digress. Here - have a look at this. Itʼs my CV from the Pre-olithic age. Have a look sonʼ. ʻBut Dave, this is the fortieth time youʼve shown me your Cave Vitaeʼ. ʻItʼs impressive isnʼt it son? Back then, there were 20 national Cave Openings, you could get an advert in Artist Newsletter for a bag of pebbles - I won the North-West Digside Cave Open twice. Dave gazed over his carved CV, before catching one little lombardio falling asleep against the fermacell wall. ʻYou boy!ʼ ʻWake up! Have you ever read any Paulo Virno son?ʼ ʻNo! No! Jesmonite Daveʼ came the startled reply. ʻHeʼs not on the reading list.ʼ He said this with the look of boy whoʼd been in a Theoretical Aesthetics lecture all day at Margaret St. ʻHow old are you son?ʼ ʻIʼm twenty three Jesmonite Dave.ʼ ʻAnd youʼre not reading Virno yet? I think I need to have a word with your mother. You should be eating Virno by the time you are seven.ʼ ʻWhat does Virno say Dave?ʼ ʻWell son, he identifies how success is measured in different spheres - there are differences between the peasant, the worker and the cultural workerʼ. With that Jesmonite Dave began to read Virno to the lombardio's: Political action has to be understood in the terms of work itself here, that is work without an end product, albeit not without products, where the evaluation and thus remuneration of this cannot be measured in the hours spent producing the objects, as was, argued Marx, the case in the industrial era of capital. Here, Virno uses the example of the peasant versus the industrial worker versus the cultural worker (or entrepreneur…). Where the peasant is awarded for producing something from nothing (growing foods from the bare earth) and the worker is salaried for his ability to transform one things into another (raw materials into usable items), the cultural workerʼs work can only be evaluated by his or her progress in the field. That is, there is no product to show how skillful a priest or a journalist are in convincing their audience or consumers, so instead they must be evaluated for aptitudes and skills of a political kind, how they are capable of advancing within the system: the quality of the priest can only be seen in him becoming a bishop, and the journalist becoming an editor and so on. It is, thus, a matter of careerism and power brokering that are at stake.

ʻSo the moral of the story is that Caves are important. Solo Caves. To make it in the Art World, you need to have had Solo Caves. I canʼt stress to you enough the importance of Solo Caves. The Lombardios looked at each other confused. ʻBut Jesmonite Dave, we donʼt live in caveman times anymore. Itʼs solo shows that are important. I ʻve got a show at Vinyl coming upʼ said one, immediately aware that he may have said the wrong thing. Jesmonite Dave cuffed the little Lombardio around the head with his staff. ʻQuiet my son. Thatʼs crazy talk. Vinylʼs not an art material. Christ itʼs barely a foodstuff. Solo shows are nothing compared to Solo Cavesʼ. ʻToday artists have it easy. Back in the Pre-olithic days caves presented a number of challenges to the exhibiting artist. For a start the light was terrible. Painters had to devise ingenious ways of showing their paintings. And itʼs so damp in caves. It can ruin the work. Give me one Solo Cave over twenty Solo Shows though. Now do you want to hear another story? ʻYes Jesmonite Daveʼ chanted one of the female lombardioʼs, ʻplease tell us about the Birmingham art world of 1920ʼ. ʻWell, son, the Birmingham art world of 1920 was pretty much the same as it is now. 10 000 years ago, however, things were very different indeed. The Lombardio he had caught going to sleep earlier, was nodding off again. Jesmonite Dave shouted at the boy: ʻDonʼt you understand Virno son?ʼ ʻI do understand Virno Jesmonite Daveʼ came the exasperated reply. ʻPlease donʼt hit me again.ʼ With that Jesmonite Dave took his large wooden staff and hit the lombardio around the head. ʻDo you understand now son?ʼ ʻYes Jesmonite Dave, I understand Virno now. Please Iʼm meant to be at a tutorial.ʼ ʻWell done son. Donʼt worry youʼve not dropped a bollock there I can tell you. You donʼt need what those perverts teach you in there. Iʼm going to tell you about the Birmingham art world of 10 000 years agoʼ. ʻThanks Jesmonite Daveʼ came the weary reply. ʻYes son, things were very different back then. Birmingham was the national leader in commercial cave art. In fact Ceri Sandstone Gallery was a world leader in cave design and used as a template for caves across the country. Raves in Caves? Please, spare me, we were doing it even before Matt Stokes, and then some. And the private view food and drink they didnʼt charge back then. Yes things were better. They just were.ʼ

ʻWhat did you eat Jesmonite Dave?ʼ ʻWell I used to eat Jesmonite.ʼ ʻAt Private Views?ʼ ʻOh at private Views, no I didnʼt eat Jesmonite at private views. I used to eat all sorts of other things. They used to have sheepʼs blood, and meat, rabbits on large skewers. Things were better 10 000 years ago son. There was a café called Cumpanini, a latin name I think, near Fazeley St. Odd stuff. But they were nice girls. Lovely cakes - though you wouldnʼt want more than two, know what I mean? ʻYes we know Jesmonite Dave.ʼ ʻBut do you really know?ʼ ʻYes.ʼ ʻI donʼt think you do. You werenʼt there. I was. Iʼve been in the Birmingham art world for 10 000 years son, and I can tell you, back then, things were much betterʼ. ʻNow children, could you do me a favour and go and fetch my jesmonite for meʼ. ʻYes Jemonite Daveʼ. With that the little lombardios scampered across the room to the other side and together dragged back a large bag of jesmonite. Jesmonite Dave took the bag and placed it on his lap. ʻAre we going to sing the Jesmonite Song Jesmonite Dave?ʼ (I think the jesonmite was getting to them). ʻYes lombardio's, we are going to sing the Jesmonite song. Are you ready?ʼ ʻYes Jesmonite Daveʼ. So as Jesomite Dave hovered up the Jeso, the lombardios sang I am a Jeso Addict. Jesmonite keeps me strong. Without Jesmonite, I couldnʼt live so long. Itʼs a magical white powder, That I eat every day. When you reach the age of 30, Youʼll discover the Jeso way. All together… After spending three months locked in a room with Jesmonite Dave, the sight of Dave eating Jesmonite came as a welcome relief to the Lombardioʼs. If only because it meant Dave wasnʼt speaking about the Birmingham Art World of 10 000 years ago.

The Lombardio's looked up wide-eyed as Jesmonite Dave spooned more and more Jesmonite into his mouth. He was boring, but eating Jesmonite daily was something to be respected. ʻNow who wants to be the Jeso boy or girl today.ʼ A fluttering of hands went up in the air. They knew the consequences if there wasnʼt any volunteers. Jesmonite Dave surveyed the forced eager looking faces, before deciding upon one Lombardio who had both hands up in the air. He ushered the lad to come forward. You shall be the Jeso-Boy today, come here and sit by my feet - thatʼs it face your friends. The little Lombardio was delighted. Maybe the previous weeks had conditioned him somewhat but today he was the Jeso Boy and nobody could take it away from him. ʻNow my son, what shall we talk about today?ʼ Please Jesmonite Dave, replied the little boy, ʻtell us about the Birmingham Art World of 1339ʼ. ʻWell my son, the Birmingham Art World of 1339 was pretty much the same as it is now, give or take.ʼ ʻNow the best time for the Birmingham art world was 10 000 years ago. Shall I tell you about that son?ʼ ʻOK Jesmonite Daveʼ the boy said wearily. ʻNow my son, thereʼs no need to be like thatʼ said Dave, clutching at his staff. ʻCan I have some Jesmonite Dave?ʼ ʻNo son, youʼre only twenty-two. Iʼll introduce you to Jesmonite when you reach thirtyʼ. ʻThe little lombardio started counted on his fingers. But Jesmonite Dave, thatʼs 2456 days away. I want to eat Jesmonite like you. And I want it now.ʼ ʻDo you realise little Lombardio that Jesmonite will make you live for ever - but only if you remain within the West Midlands vicinity and visit local private views at least three times a week. Thatʼs no mean feat, finding that many openings per week in the West Midlands, I mean this isnʼt Manchester.ʼ ʻOn the other hand the life of a Jeso addict isnʼt so bad though. One day you are in Worcester at Pitt Projects, the next day your in Stoke; maybe if youʼre desperate, you pop in to the Bilston art gallery on your way back.ʼ ʻNow do you want to hear a another little story my little lombardioʼs?ʼ ʻYes Jesmonite Dave.ʼ ʻWell get a bit closer. Thatʼs it.ʼ

What do you want to hear about my children?ʼ ʻTell us about the Birmingham art world of 1578 Jesmonite Dave.ʼ ʻWell, son, the Birmingham art world of 1578 was pretty much the same as it is now. But 10 000 years ago things were different. That was a real peak time for the Birmingham Art World. We were world leaders. I used to have a friend who ran a commercial cave in Dudley. His artists were having Solo Caves all over the world…ʼ Crikey this was boring. If I was recounting this as a story, I would say itʼs nothing more than padding. We had been here for 25 minutes and my arm was hurting from holding the mirror on the pole. We had found out nothing, aside from the fact that Solo Caves were supposedly better than Solo Shows. We lowered the mirror to the sound of mid-twenty-somethingʼs quietly whimpering and crying as Dave smashed their I-phones with his staff. ʻHow boring was that P-Nutsʼ I sighed as we walked down the road. ʻJesmonite Dave really is incredibly boring.ʼ I glanced across but P-Nuts wasnʼt listening. He had stolen some Jesmonite - god knows how. He didnʼt have this in his collection and he was running in to Club PST.

VIII. Show Title Tombola Slightly despondent at our efforts, the next day I returned to P-Nuts flat and decided to try some Jesmonite. P-Nuts said it wasnʼt that bad but it was no easifil 45. That stuff stayed with you like a Cally Spooner Play. Two days later we were still in the flat eating cornflakes from the packet recounting to each other the colourful history of the assistant curatorial position at IKON. Thankfully we realised it was a Thursday and Eastside Projects would be having their monthly ESP beetle drive on, so we snapped out of our J-hole stupor and got together the £8.20 we needed to bribe our way past the cub scout on the door and get in to the post conceptual free for all insect quiz madness. 49

The Beetle drive was in full swing and great fun but all of a sudden an argument broke out at table 7 where The IKON Independent Technicians Collective had been accused of bringing 50 51 their own dice and rolling double sixes at will. In the melee, we snuck upstairs into the 52 mezzanine bit and found a discreet space amongst all the ʻstuffʼ . We were hopeful that if we could remain undetected and stay behind after the event, we may glimpse something that 53 would shed a little light on things. We were not to be disappointed. After the Beetle Drive the many tired directors sat down in the makeshift log cabin to catch up on BA TV, the new local Visual Arts Station launched by 49

And very conveniently.

This admittedly was normal technician practice.

Queen and Crawford biscuits were now being launched at the technicians from Randy Unionʼs table.

Imagine the Pitt Rivers Museum crossed with the props dept of ʻDoctorsʼ.

We werenʼt sure what but my God this Plot needed to go somewhere fast.

conglomerate We Arenʼt Eastbeth, Weʼre Digside Now Ok?

As the programme finished the directors shared a few theoretical jokes with the gallery parrot before things suddenly became very interesting. One of them left the hut and strolled over to the bookstand. He took what could have been a chair and stood up to slid one of the less 55 favoured books to the side As he did this a secret door opened like a Herbert Bayer Kiosk design and revealed a secret passageway. P-Nuts and Myself gasped at each other as we continued to peer over the temporary scaffold structure the builders must have left when they fitted the lighting. The director walked in to the passageway, which was fully lit by Susan Collis studded diamond LEDs, and came back about a minute later with what looked like some sort of tombola machine made up of old taxi parts, or it could have been part of a Roger Hiorns, we werenʼt sure. As he wheeled it in to the (now quite toasty) Directorʼs Hut the other directors rose as one to greet its entry. It was a response akin to something you would see in a communist 56 dictatorship where the army and government officials saluted the great leader. All the 57 directors were standing rigid and saluting the tombola, raising tiny illy espresso cups full of Mango lassi and downing them, before refilling them from a spare plan chest drawer. One of them shouted ʻEastsiders! Attention!ʼ and gave a more specific salute, comprising of placing the right hand across the heart and making a small ʻeʼ letter with the little finger, whilst 54

With the proliferation of local TV after the Localism bill was passed in early 2013, a group of pioneering Birmingham artists had set up Birmingham Artists TV. Although still a little low on programming, two programmes had really taken off and were watched avidly by boggle eyed artists across Birmingham. Today the EP directors were watching the end of Based in and a whole episode of The Adventures of Dependent Curator. Based In resembled a rudimentary Points of View: artists sent in imaginative ʻbased inʼ scenarios and these were read out by a rather bored looking individual on the governments back to work scheme. We just caught the final three: ...is based in Ayslebury and Cologne. ...is based in Milton Keynes and New York. ...is based in Bury and Berlin. The Adventures of Dependent Curator (ʻHeʼs itinerant and in bed by 10ʼ) detailed the banal existence of DC, a thirty something male who still lived with his mum and dad, but harboured grand dreams of one day becoming a successful Independent Curator. Sample dialogue included: Dependent Curator Mum: As itʼs your 36th Birthday on Saturday DC, me and your dad thought it would be nice if you invited a few friends round for tea. I could do Fishili and Weiss sausages. What do you think DC? DC: Yes! Thatʼs a great idea mum. Can we have a Paul McCarthy pizza as well!? DCM: I donʼt see why not DC. It is your birthday after all. DC: How many people can I invite mum? DCM: As many as you like DC DC: Can I invite Hans Olbrist Ulrich? DCM: Of course you can DC. DC: And Nicholas Bourriaud? DCM No dear, do you not remember last time - heʼs French. DC: Oh. DCM: OK, Iʼll email him a short expression of interest with some images by lunchtime today. DC: Thanks mum!

Yes. This is what the Fuck Bibles were for!

Or, it could have been that the Jesomite was still kicking in.

About 14 we counted, one was on skype.

also holding the left hand to the forehead making a large Benny Hill-esque ʻPʼ on the side of the body. They were all swaying with their eyes crossed and it was obvious there must be more to the significance of this salute than we could make out from our vantage point, 58 especially as they were fully clothed. This must have been the fabled ʻShow Title Tombola Machineʼ, previously thought only to be 59 a myth made up by Jesomite Dave one night in The White Swan. It had not been seen since going missing after the Martin Creed gig at the British Art Show 2002 and since the closure of B16 it was rumoured to have been thrown in to the canal by an angry council member who had mistaken it for a sculptural maquette that was being planned to go in the middle of Canon Hill Park. Legend had it that the tombola contained the names of 31 shit hot exhibition titles, taken from an age old list made at gunpoint by several prominent members of the Birmingham art world. This list was written under duress at the culmination of a 2-day Mid-West ʻcatalysing research in to actionʼ planning weekend. Curators, artists and some people who have never been seen since, were made to name every secret idea for a show they had planned to do, in order to 60 leave the expensively hired venue. It was believed that the list highlighted all the key themes that contemporary art would go on to cover, at least until Art Monthly was printed in colour. Some of them were old but would still 61 work because they had come from the tombola. So far it had produced Sculpture Show, Narrative Show, Cat Show, Dog Show and Cheese Show. Although the last one was something of a disaster after the air conditioning broke, and Liam Gillickʼs cat embarked on a 3 week protest by squatting in the second gallery space and refusing to come out until the all cheese was returned. As the tombola was spun the directors knew the stakes were high. They needed a ʻgood-unʼ. In a scene like those bits in Scooby-do when the viewer returns to the action only to watch the same footage again, we watched the Directors staring at the spinning tombola for about 5 minutes. They all looked nervous as shit as the pink exhaust pipe went round and round on its temporary Dan Graham axis. What was it going to be? Please not the feared Painting Show 62 that they knew would have to happen one day. A noise emerged and out popped on to the floor a ping-pong ball. It bounced once and then 63 again but the words ʻSEX SHOWʼ were clearly visible on it. They looked at one another as it

Since 1997 and the introduction of the ʻPeriscopeʼ law it has been illegal for artist led spaces in Birmingham to not have a dance assigned to them. To get round this, many spaces now just put Mark Essen in a show once a year or took up rollerblading, but it would appear that the Eastside directors were keen to keep traditions alive.

Although essentially it was an adapted Vegetable Oil barrel, sprayed pink with an exhaust pipe on top of it.

The list was originally intended to be cut up like a Tristan Tsara poem and read back to the artists by Carl Chin at a later seminar event titled ʻResponding to catalysing research into action: a pause for de briefʼ - a 3 day sleepover event at the Hyatt hotel.

And no one went to EVERYTHING.

They had already blotted theyʼre copy book somewhat with many established museums after a Renoir was loaned as part of Breast Show and then converted in to part of a cupboard to store the Extra Special Peopleʼs slippers, which had started to dominate the room under the stairs where they were often all kept reading Kurt Vonnegut.

Even to the director on skype who quickly uploaded a ʻsad face cryingʼ smilie.

continued to bounce towards the pet chameleon that was perched on a shelf. They couldnʼt do anything. The tombola machine had spoken. And the newly installed CCTV cameras didnʼt help.65 ʻBollocksʼ said one of the directors. ʻItʼs all going to come out now. People are going to make connections.ʼ “The Randy Unioners are going to be furiousʼ said another and Vivid, well theyʼve never had it so good. Theyʼll be livid. Livid Vivid, thatʼs quite good. I like that.ʼ The others were all still shaking there heads. One was crying. This clearly wasnʼt good. One director began kicking an angled section shed wall, missing first but then connecting with the welsh timber. He lamented ʻThis is bad news. If this goes ahead theyʼre going to find out about the E-Manual…ʼ P-Nuts and I looked at each other, what was the problem with the Eastside Projects manual? Indefinite, Impenetrable, densely written text on fluorescent paper, yes, but nothing to cause alarm. 66

Well reader, we were to find out there and then, and you may find this quite astonishing, but The Eastside Project Manual - The E-Manual - is actually based on the infamous French softcore-porn film series Emmanuelle. Reader, if you download the E-Manual, donʼt be deceived by the clever drawings, they are a re-working of sex positions from Emmanuelle; the whole gallery space is constructed around interpretations of the sex scenes in the film. Download it backwards and hold it up to a mirror. See? There it is, right under the Arts Council noses. Lizitsky = Alain Siritzky Productions. Itʼs simple, but itʼs genius, and slightly perverted. The Eastside Projects directors had an early inkling that the Art & Promiscuity Act would be passed if the Conservatives came to power, and so had prepared this document in defiant advance. Crikey! What a story! Anyway, back in the hut. The ball was now being examined by the graphic and marketing 67 team . It definitely said SEX SHOW and the font could not be altered in anyway, itself having a detailed and irregular serif system but mainly because it was printed on to a spherical surface. One of the directors looked at the group and said ʻSol Le Clitʼ? and then it all started – ʻlook at My Lawrence Weinerʼ said another gesticulating at an Extra Special Intern who was wiping mango lassi off the wood and loading the dishwasher. From our position amongst the stuff on the top of the mezzanine, we could sense that despite this boisterous banter, they were all really rather worried. SEX SHOW could be disastrous, not just for those who have read the E-Manual, but for the whole of the Birmingham Art World. 64

Long story but one of the international artists from Animal Show had left Barry (as he was now called) the chameleon by mistake and only realized when he got to the airport customs that he had instead packed a brand new HD projector still in its box in a cage full of sawdust.

This was linked up to The Hive in Manchester, and was monitored by a remote system to see the amount of people coming in to the gallery. If a set number didnʼt come in each week then an alert was sounded. Limo taxi drivers had never seen so much art. It also crucially monitored sexual activity. Fortunately it had no sound - and the directors were standing between the camera and the machine. 66 Or have suspected all along. 67

About 4 in number. Average age 7.

IX. Rich Tea Biscuits Back at P-Nuts flats we discussed what we had just seen. We knew that putting on SEX SHOW would be disastrous for Eastside Projects, but what would happen to the whole 68 Birmingham Art World if they got shut down? As we were discussing this, P-Nuts was again 69 dabbing me in saliva and applying nibbles to my nipples - a dried out TNAGW samosa on each breast that he had revived by spraying with water. He was whispering again ʻGendarme, Gendarmeʼ. ʻI love you too Peanutsʼ I replied, surprising myself, actually quite enjoying the samosa-breast combination experience. ʻGendarmeʼ he whispered softly in my ear, his breath a salty residue of vintage pork scratchings, circa 1988 Damp Tavern. ʻDo you love me?ʼ ʻYou love private view nibbles more than me.ʼ I smiled. He didnʼt say anything, but looked at me longingly, like he craved to tell me something. I said I found ʻgendarmeʼ very sweet, it became quite appealing, quirky. ʻKeep saying gendarme Peanuts.ʼ But then I remembered something. I had found a USB in my bag, I think the HD video artist must have put it in there. It had an email exchange between 2 Arts Council officials on it; I wasnʼt sure if it was a clue or not. ʻWhat does it say? What does it say!ʼ cried P-Nuts? Itʼs a document that reveals that Arts Council funding cuts for regularly funded organisations had only gone ahead after an argument over rich tea biscuits at the ACE HQ (AKA THE HIVE). A mole in the Arts Council had leaked an email exchange. Thatʼs why VIVID didnʼt get their funding. ʻOver rich tea biscuits?ʼ ʻYes, I donʼt think it will help us, but Iʼll read it out for you. You never know. I would imagine it will be more useful than listening to Jesmonite Dave.ʼ

Dear Sarah, When are the next lot of rich teas coming in? Ta, Steve. 68

Jesomite Dave had a theory on this but we didnʼt share it.

Always plenty left, he said, even late on.

///////////////////////////////// Dear Steve, Iʼm sorry but we wonʼt be getting any more rich teaʼs in for the foreseeable future. Cuts have had to be made. You will have to do with Jammy Dodgers! Sarah. ///////////////////////////////// Dearest Sarah, Donʼt patronise me please with your Jammy Dodger exclamation mark rubbish. I want to know when the next lot of rich tea biscuits are coming in? Danke! Steve ///////////////////////////////// Steve, itʼs like I said before, the rich teaʼs are OVER. Sarah. ///////////////////////////////// Dear dear Sarah, What the hell? Why have the rich teaʼs been cut? I donʼt like any other types of biscuit. Please can you order some more. I donʼt want this to escalate into a biscuit war. Thank you, Steve. ///////////////////////////////// Steve. Cuts have had to be made. Iʼm sorry but the rich tea biscuits were unsustainable. You were the only person who was eating them - everyone is into more exciting biscuits. Whatʼs wrong with the Jammy Dodgers anyway? ///////////////////////////////// Sarah,

I hate Jammy dodgers. They are not rich teas. I reiterate Jammy Dodgers are NOT rich tea biscuits. I agree that cuts have to be made, but why cut biscuits? Biscuits are important. Please can you order some more rich teas in? Steve. ///////////////////////////////// Steve - you were the only one eating them, they had to go. Sarah. ///////////////////////////////// Dear Sarah, I didnʼt want it to come to this, but hereʼs a proposition for you. I know you are good friends with the directors of VIVID in Birmingham, ArtSway in Hampshire and Castlefield Gallery in Manchester. If you donʼt get me the biscuits by next week, I will sign paper work to have their funding withdrawn. Do you understand? Steve. ///////////////////////////////// Steve, Come on now - thatʼs a little bit over the top donʼt you think? Letʼs keep calm over this. Why donʼt you scrape the jam off the Jammy Dodger? It will be just like a rich tea then. Letʼs keep things in proportion. Sarah. ///////////////////////////////// Dear Sarah, I have just signed paperwork authorising funding cuts for VIVID, Castlefield Gallery and ArtSway. All because YOU wouldnʼt order any rich teas. Happy now? Steve. ///////////////////////////////// Is this a Kihlberg and Henry thing?

Sarah. We didn始t get that last bit but decided it was all another red herring. If the Arts Council were using biscuits as a code for cutting funding we were all doomed, especially Queen and 70 Crawford . With all these loose endings we suspected that the Birmingham Art World might well be on to us and were deliberately leading us astray. Liam Gillick's email address, 71 Jesmonite Dave, Arts Council funding exposed. We were getting nowhere. The only clue we had was that Eastside Projects were concerned that SEX SHOW could be disastrous for the whole of the Birmingham Art World. What were we to do? There始s only so many shows on in Birmingham at a time you know.

X. Hard Drive I was back out on the pull, looking for artists to hook up with who might be able to give me a little information. I had met this geeky looking guy in a pub called The Dotted Frog in Upperformer Lower-Digside. We had a few drinks, and got on well. Before you know it, we are back at his studio over on West South Digside. Despite all my years of studio voyeuristic tendencies, I had never encountered a studio like this before: hard wooden floors, pristine plastered white walls and hundreds of hard drives neatly stacked on polished aluminum shelves. There was a temperature control monitor behind a retractable glass screen cordoning off a corner of the room. We had a couple of drinks, standing well away from the hard-drives behind the glass screen. After talking me through his graphics card collection, he asked me to close my eyes - he had a surprise for me. Now I like surprises but I doubted if he could surprise me with the materials he had in the room. I heard lots of rummaging. When he told me to open them, he was lying there naked, spreadeagled on the floor, his bits covered by his hard drive collection. He then began to sing: 100 hard drives covering my memory stick, 100 hard drives sitting on my memory stick, And if one hard drive should accidentally fall, There'll be 99 hard drives covering my memory stick. 99 hard drives covering my memory stick, 99 hard drives covering my memory stick, And if one hard drive should accidentally fall, There'll be 98 hard drives covering my memory stick. Each time he completed a verse he would remove a hard-drive from the pile and place it on a small conveyor belt that returned it to its original shelve location; I had an inkling this was a 70

Who had started a luxury biscuit making facility at the back of Randy Union and ferrying them to Australia via Ikon galleries slow disco youth boat.

And we knew what driving in the Black Country at rush hour was like.

well worn routine. Eventually he got down to just one small My Passport hard-drive covering his ʻmemory-stickʼ: 1 hard drive sitting on my memory stick, 1 hard drives sitting on my memory stick, And if one hard drive should accidentally fall, There'll be 0 hard drives sitting on my memory stick. Reader, I can tell you now, this really was a memory stick

XI. Technician Tony I was reluctant to involve myself with any more male Birmingham artists after the hard-drive debacle, but P-Nuts persuaded me to give it one last go. I had met a guy called Tony - a jobbing technician and abstract painter - a couple of weeks earlier in The Prince of Snails. I gave him a ring and we met up at the park in North to Middle Digside. After been harassed by a couple of tramps trying to sell us a broken bird-table, we decided to head back to his studio in South-Eastern Digside. As we walked Tony recounted his week: ʻI was installing that Marina Abramovich show the other day. Didnʼt think much of it. A jobs a job though. Got to pay the bills. And the week before that I was working at White Cube on the Damien Hirst retrospective. Shit work. Terrible artist. Got to put bread on the table though. Needs mustʼ. Tony had a brusque way about him and an apparent dislike for most contemporary art. He seemed to equate picking up a weekly pay packet from a gallery as an act of Robin Hood72 esque resistance. Tony called himself a painter, not an artist. He was keen to stress this distinction: ʻYour usual run-of-the-mill contemporary artist is a Jack of all trades, they dabble in a bit of everything. But I am a master of one: I am a painter.ʼ With that, we had now walked along New Canal Street and were near the site for the newly 73 planned Guggenheim Digside . He handed me a large brush, before stepping away from me. He asked me to pull it out from behind my back as if it were a knife. I did so, holding it up to his face. He smiled at me, before saying in what I thought was meant to be an Australian accent ʻYou call that a brush?ʼ. He then whipped out a small brush tucked inside the top of his trousers. ʻNow this is a brushʼ he purred, in what was probably an attempt at a Mexican accent. ʻIt is a three HB brush manufactured from the hair of miniature Shetland ponies. It is worth

He went on to describe how when installing a show he would go to great lengths to damage gallery equipment or waste materials. If no one was looking he enjoyed nothing more than sawing new sheets of ply (18 mm) into unusable shapes or overheating power tools until they burnt out.

Opposite zbragias on Fazeley St.

over £15ʼ. He put the brush back down his trousers without a glint of embarrassment . He then announced loudly: ʻI paint pictures with my penis. I call them Penistures. Would you like to see my Lawrence Weiner?ʼ Gosh I thought to myself, he had a Lawrence Weiner. He must have pilfered it from a show. How could he have done that? But Tony was thinking of a very different Lawrence Weiner. As he dropped his trousers to reveal his ʻbrushʼ, I soon understood what kind of Lawrence Weiner he meant. In a squeaky voice he lifted up a length of elastic (5 mm) already attached to his penis (was this permanent I wondered?) and began to move his penis like a small floppy puppet. Remarkably, and reader I kid you not, Tonyʼs penis spoke to me saying ʻHello, Iʼm little Lawrence Weinerʼ. The anthropomorphized penis continued to speak to me. ʻWill you assist me?ʼ it squeaked. ʻYesʼ I replied ʻOf course, I would love to help you Little Lawrence.ʼ ʻThank you maamʼ came the reply. At this point we were asked to leave the café. We went back to Tonyʼs studio and he moved slowly towards a cardboard box in the corner of his studio. He continued to gently tug on the elastic, so that Little Lawrence bobbed up and down. It reminded me of someone riding a baby camel - but only slightly - maybe it was more like something I saw at the daily Lux screenings that seemed to be on everywhere. Arriving at the box - and after little Lawrence had completed an ʻinspectionʼ and given it the all clear - Tony lifted from the box a painting contraption of some kind. Modeled around an old baby harness, it featured a funnel that stuck out from his mid-drift above his ʻbrushʼ, and a female mannequin hand that emerged from his breasts. The hand held the piece of elastic that was attached to Lawrence. He operated the device by pulling the elastic from near his chin in short, sharp tugs. Little Lawrence began to ʻdanceʼ. He asked me to pour paint into his funnel - this dropped onto his ʻbrushʼ in large heavy dollops. Using the elastic attached to his hand, he maneuvered his ʻbrushʼ back and forth at a rapid rate - firing the paint towards the ʻcanvasʼ. Only I hadnʼt realised, the canvas was me. He circled, flicking paint towards me. Tonyʼs paint was from The Works and I really got ʻthe worksʼ; the full works - all over my body. He sure had an artist toolkit that would put a-n magazine to shame. After covering me in a thick layer of cheap orange acrylic, Tony took off his painting harness and pulled a long piece of elastic (15 mm) from his pocket. He tied the elastic around little Lawrence, so that there were two lengths hanging down, each approximately a metre long. 74

We were now in the queue for an egg and bacon baguette.

He then began to operate Lawrence as if operating a divining rod, moving around the room in measured, pronounced strides. Turning to face me, he applied over half a large tube of blue paint to his brush. Pulling his arms back in a vaguely meditative manner he pulled the elastic taut. ʻHalleluiah! Ba-doing!ʼ he cried. The paint splattered against my nose, dripping down onto my lips. This was the cheapest paint I had ever tasted. We spent the next six hours repeating his procedure, only disturbed by the caretaker coming in to take an electricity reading.75 Fortunately for me - as I suspect that this could have gone on for days - Tonyʼs penis eventually became trapped in the funnel of his contraption during ʻchange-overʼ. It was clamped good and proper. No amount of yanking could remove it. We went to City Hospital and the staff greeted Tony like a familiar friend; I left him in the casualty waiting room, chatting to an artist-friend of his who had swallowed a small gerbil after a performance night fund-raiser for the RSPCA had got out of hand.

XII. Randy Union Heading home through Digside, I decided to do the rounds of the art-spaces, just in case I could spot anything. Eastside Projects was open, full of cub-scouts taking down their latest 76 show. Anyway, there didnʼt seem to be any thing untoward going on at EP. I moved down to Grand Union, standing in the darkness opposite the entrance for a few minutes. All was quiet, and then just as I was above to leave, the lights went on in the main project space. I could make out a few familiar silhouettes. 11 pm, this was strange. Who holds meetings at 11 pm? I phoned P-Nuts. I had a feeling that something might be going on and waited for him next to the car wash. He arrived in no time, whispering his customary greeting of ʻgendarmeʼ in my ear. I smelt that familiar smell off gone off salt - and dare I say it - felt slightly aroused again. But this was nothing compared to what we saw in Grand Union that night. After climbing on to the roof and sneaking in through a skylight, we realised why Grand Unionʼs well-known nickname was ʻRandy Unionʼ. MY GOD…the things me and P-Nuts saw that night would make you blush in your sleep. He nearly spoiled everything of course, after he spotted a Prêt-a-Manger prawn and lemongrass bagel propping up a chair. Although this wasnʼt technically a private view, P-Nuts had never seen a bagel such as this in an art context before. His salivating was so intense that his

I realised this must have been a normal occurrence for the caretaker, Tony and Lawrence as we continued the paint splattering routine whilst the elderly man who took the electricity reading remained oblivious apart from whistling along to the moans that we made during our ménage a trios.

Ever resourceful EP directors had approached the Cub-Scout Association with the idea of a Contemporary Art Badge. Part fulfillment of this badge involved 400 hours volunteering at EP. It was a tough one to get and much treasured by the lucky few who had completed it.

dribble had dropped and made a plop on the ground, prompting one of the Randy Unionerʼs to turn around briefly. Luckily leaks were plenty at Grand Union after Karin and Reubenʼs test launch had removed several roof panels and moved the sky dish to receive only Greek game show channels. As we peered down through the roof we soon realized that we were witnessing what appeared to be a ritual or a rehearsal of some sort. Whoever was based in the space parallel to the artistʼs studios had come up the fire escape and was conducted a comprehensive 15 minute performance called ʻDo You Want To See My Wood? Yes, you do want to see my wood. See my wood.ʼ Dressed in workshop overalls and a safety dust mask he was teasing the Randy Unionerʼs again and again with glimpses of his wood. ʻDo You Want To See My Wood?ʼ he shouted. ʻYes!ʼ cried the Randy Unioners.ʼ ʻDo You Really Want To See My Wood?ʼ ʻYes! Show Us Your Woodʼ screamed the Randy Unionerʼs, in unison. ʻDo You Really, Really Want To See My Wood?ʼ ʻYes! Yes! Show us your wood!ʼ The Randy Unioners were going crazy now, jumping up and down on their stackable chairs, hurling their arms in the air. They were chanting ʻWood! Wood! Wood! Show Us Your Wood!ʼ 77

Then, as the performer returned from downstairs with a large lump of rare blacklabel MDF but wearing nothing else - a Randy Unioner shouted ʻRandy Unioners! - To the love tunnel!ʼ. This was clearly a cue, as one by one they began disappearing down a small trap door located behind the bar. Some of them hit their heads repeatedly as they went in to the office; it would seem not always entirely on purpose. The room was now empty, and we climbed down in to the project space using a spare curatorial platform. Nervously we approached the bar cum office. The trap door was in the bottom draw of an old filing cabinet that had been left open. We could hear voices from below and climbed in down a ladder, suddenly finding ourselves in a large tunnel; to our right was a plastic box housing what appeared to be a sheaf of dusty Event 09 guides. Using our iphones we opened one of these up and were presented with a large map that appeared to detail a vast network of secret tunnels under Digside, which connected all the artist-led 78 institutions and organisations in Birmingham. The tunnel was approximately 1.5 m high x 1.5 m wide, and completely bare except for small speakers every 30 yards playing an actor singing Serge Gainsboroughʼs JʼTaime - on repeat. We followed the Randy Unioners down the tunnel, keeping our distance. As they marched, they began chanting to the tune of Pink Floyds ʻThe Wallʼ:

Made with the tears of New Contempories participants after the weeklong life drawing entrance exam.

It would later transpire that this network was dug out by first year students from the art school (Module: Mike Nelson Applied).

ʻWe are not some David Blandy Union, ooohhh! Ahhhhh! We are Randy, Randy Union ooohhh Ahhhhh!ʼ This was followed by another loud grunt - before the chant began again.

This went on for 10 minutes or so before the groups leader suddenly raised his hand. The group fell silent; a few members looked visibly anxious. One was sick on anotherʼs new trainers. In the distance a voice could be heard softly singing. It became louder. Aaah, aaah, aaah, aaah Uhraah! Bass! The Randy Unioners were looking worried now. They were pressing themselves against the walls, rigid with fear. Some of them looked like theyʼd been made to play triangle in a Juneau Brothers gig. Ooh White walls, White walls! Ooh White walls, White walls! Ooh White walls, White walls! The singing became louder, and then stopped abruptly. There was an anxious 30 seconds before the singing began again, but it sounded like it had disappeared down a different tunnel. 80 By our reckoning it was heading towards somewhere near the Bond Gallery. We later found out that this was the voice of ʻThe Invigilatorʼ, a feared character who had haunted the love tunnels underneath Digside for years. Legend has it that he went mad after invigilating at the IKON for too long. Staring at white walls for hours on end had sent him potty, and one day, after been asked for the umpteenth time whether this was his exhibition, he cracked. No one really knows what happened in the gallery that afternoon - the cameras havenʼt worked since the Ceal Floyer show - but IKON staff later found the severed head of an old lady attached to a cactus in the Martin Creed exhibition. He had been on the run since, living in the love tunnels underneath Digside. Art worlders looked after their own. The Randy Unionerʼs got back in to formation and started marching again, singing their happy song. Later on the walk we thought we could hear roller-skates and kept on looking round to see if something was coming, but apart from bumping in to Stuart and Ana from AAS who were doing Tai Chi on a blanket by the River Rea Sluice gate we didnʼt see anything or anybody else. As the Randy Unionerʼs continued to chant theyʼre way around the network they were also beginning to remove items of their clothing. Indeed by the time they arrived at the ladder marked ʻThis way to VIVID Productions- come on up!ʼ they were all as naked as the day they were born. Just what were we letting ourselves in for now…

We think we heard recitals of ʻHey! Langdon leave those decks aloneʼ but couldnʼt be sure.

Craft gallery specialising in glued down things.

XIII. Vivid Productions We waited until all the Randy Unionerʼs had ascended VIVIDʼs love ladder up gingerly ourselves and lifting the trap door slightly.

before climbing

My GOD reader, the sight that met our eyes was not the sort of thing you find even on the back pages of Art Review: It was the entire Birmingham Art World in the buff. There seemed to be some filming going on, although everyone seemed oblivious to this. On a large screen Karin Kihlberg and Reuben Henryʼs Inbindable Volume was showing without the 82 sound on. In front of this, five naked men shuffled across sideways as a group, locked arm in arm; they were being tersely spoken to by a dishy Irish dance teacher. ʻHold your formation boys!ʼ she had a whistle too. ʻWait till I say grabʼ ʻGod this better be better when we start filming for Jesus sake…You there, Crowd 4 take your hand off him for chrissakes, youʼre meant to be grabbing the other guys bollocks tightly, not wafting them in the air like a badminton racket. Go on Grab them man, he doesnʼt mind, chrisakes heʼs big enough.ʼ At which point all eyes in the room moved towards the nether regions of Crowd Number 5. It was hard to see but I think he was grinning. From the storyboard on the wall it was clear that they were filming Stud Wall 3, hopefully the concluding part of the Stud Wall trilogy. One of them had lost his ʻummphʼ and an assistant was holding up a copy of Art Monthly for him to look at - this seemed to excite him - and he 83 was ready to go again. Because of the prohibition on artwork referencing sex, a niche category for art related porn films had quickly developed, with events like The Fudgepack festival leading the way in developing audiences for eclectic and long-winded filmic deviations on a sexual nature. Art connoisseurs would flock to screenings and laugh at seemingly inappropriate places, often because theyʼd recognize a hidden contemporary art reference in amongst the moaning and

I caught a brief glimpse of Stuart Whippʼs bottom, what a sight. How Iʼd like to develop his prints.

Presumably left on repeat from the last show.

It transpired that as Vivid struggled for cash after the Arts Council Biscuitgate, they had made the sideways move in to Adult Artists Entertainment. For years VIVID had been confused with Vivid Adult Productions, the largest adult entertainment company in the world. Busty American girls would fly in to Birmingham in the belief that Vivid could offer them work. Eventually the more persistent ones found Vivid – (this was before they installed a sign under ʻThe Garageʼ) - only to be told that they had made a mistake but were welcome to help move the research pod - which on account of subsidence caused by the tunnel network had to be moved 90 degrees east every 45 minutes. Forced to re invent itself VIVID was now flourishing as its alter-ego organisation and was making big waves in the adult entertainment industry. Under the Art and Promiscuity Act making porn films was still legal, in fact it was positively encouraged by the coalition government, it was making art about sex they hated.

close ups of bodily fluids. VIVID saw all of this as an opportunity and previous to the bill had been developing a stable of in-house directors who were able to use the all Hi-end equipment that was hidden in the pod. Sometimes they just did club nights, left the bar unmanned and let the camera roll, such was the supply of willing volunteers and hunky install staff who were more than willing to indulge in a bit of horseplay in order receive some critical feedback on the film idea they had planned. It was a win-win situation especially for Videos R Us who were doing a steady trade in loaning out strap on cameras and microphones. The filming stopped after the ʻStud Wallʼ collapsed as it was being metaphorically converted in 84 to a shelving unit . There was a round of applause and people started to move tables to the centre of the room. Someone opened a pack of biscuits, whilst another did their best not to help anyone by doing their emails on their i-phone. Eventually everyone fell quiet and someone stood up and began reading a passage from Badiou: “The Event is the creation of a new possibility. The Event changes not only the real, but also the possible. The Event is at the level not of simple possibility, but at the level of possibility of possibility.” Someone put up their hand and said that they didnʼt understand Badiou. This seemed a cathartic moment as everyone else agreed that they didnʼt understand Badiou either. After some general nattering and cheap jokes at Alainʼs expense, the meeting got itself back on track. Someone asked if the heating could be switched on, as they were all still naked. ʻItʼs all gone wrong since Birmingham Sexual Art Forum emergedʼ someone piped up. ʻBut we are Birmingham Sexual Art Forum - and Birmingham Contemporary Art Forum. Same people, different nameʼ. said the Chairman. They mulled this over for a while, thinking about the ramifications of this. They were effectively pissed off at themselves for running two organisations. ʻIsnʼt this a Birmingham Sexual Art Forum meeting?ʼ one curator said. ʻWhy are we discussing The Event then? Itʼs BCAF next week.ʼ With that cleared up - today was a BSAF meeting, not a BCAF meeting - they continued the meeting. 85

This was it! This was the motherload! What we were witnessing was a meeting of BSAF Birmingham Sexual Art Forum. This was the centre of the Hub, of the Artist Led Sexual 86 Backlash Group This was why Iʼd been covered in salty bar snacks and filmed performing slow motion sex scenes! It was clear to us now. BSAF had been established as a sub 87 committee to BCAF as a furtive underground organisation in reaction to the Art & Promiscuity Act of 2012. This is how Birmingham was stealing a march on the other piss poor provincial cities who were also being shafted by the government. By working and playing 84

A truly incredible sight.

Not the Yoko Ono inspired VIVID production of the same name.

Or whatever it was called back then.

Which they maybe took this a bit too literally.

(literally) with each other. ʻRight we have a new member, quiet over there technicians…ʼ the Chairman said.

ʻWe have to induct them, did everyone get the email?ʼ Some people obviously hadnʼt and looked pissed off, but from the reaction of everyone else this seemed quite normal. The new member stood up fully naked and read from their application form. There was quite a bit of laughter and no one took any notice of their bits, but everyone took great interest in their flawed business plan that was being passed round everyoneʼs i-pad via Bluetooth and Schwitter. Finally above the laughter someone, obviously the self-nominated comedian of the group said: ʻIf youʼre prepared to read and show us this application, you have to be OK - itʼs terrible! Did you really think the MAC would be interested in having a shark in their lake?! My god…Welcome to Birmingham Sexual Art Forumʼ. ʻRight on to business…ʼ the chairman started. What followed was fascinating. It would appear that for some time BSAF had been planning to launch The Annual National Artist Led (Sex) Show as an act of mass defiance of the Art & Promiscuity Act. This was a mass sex themed exhibition! To hell with the legislation! They 89 couldnʼt arrest them all was the plan. Adverts had been placed in Variant, Artists Newsletter and Contact magazines. With the money VIVID were making filtering down to all the organizations through artist fees, the ANAL (sex) show could be a no holes barred experience that truly put the dour grey Midland city back at the top of the second best places to live if you couldnʼt afford to move to Berlin just 90 yet . BSAF were expecting thousands of like-minded artists and a few from Bristol, to join them and had even printed a tote bag with condoms that read ʻCut us but donʼt Censor us.ʼ So this is what they had been planning all along! I had my scoop. I couldnʼt wait to send in my copy. But I was part of this now. I really wanted to see Grand Unionʼs Pantomime, the 5 screen porn film screening at VIVID, the Artistʼs wood printing workshop at Slice. I wanted to make it happen too. I couldnʼt shop them in now. The meeting went on. BSAF member organisations now had to give an update on their preparation for The ANAL (Sex) Show. A Randy Union representative offered a brief resume of their preparation for their pantomime ʻDo You Want To See My Wood? Yes, you do want to see my wood. See my wood.ʼ Whilst 88

The organisation had strict guidelines to ensure that new members were not working for the government or police by getting applicants to perform a written, verbal and physical exam. The exam was called ʻIʼll show you mine, if you show me yoursʼ. This involved not only the disclosure of private parts, but also failed funding applications - often at the same time.

Actually on later consultation with West-Midlands police it was clear that they could actually lock up the majority of the artist led population of Birmingham by hiring 2 double decker buses and operating a night bus timetable from outside the Old Crown pub on Fridays.

Brum had been third for the last 4 years, beaten by Reading and Norwich due to their superior street carnival licensing laws.

VIVID announced that they were planning to show their last five films, all at once, with 91 everyone in the nude and raise the shutters during daylight hours . Scheduled films were ʻJackson Bollock: I Second that Emulsionʼ, ʻPic-Ass-O in Oh La La! Mind My Spotty Botty!ʼ, the remake of Martin Kippen-Fur-Burgerʼs ʻEaters at Dawnʼ, ʻStud Wall 3ʼ and ʻMoan A Hatoum - Internalʼ. ʻIt looks greatʼ someone shouted, gesturing to the film-set and makeshift cages behind them. It was now Eastside Projects turn. An EP representative stood up. ʻWe have a problem - the Show Title Tombola spoke today, and it said ʻSEX SHOWʼ. The whole room went quiet. ʻOh no…ʼ someone gasped. ʻYou are jokingʼ said a Randy Unioner, ʻthis will ruin everything - if you have SEX SHOW before the ANAL (Sex) Show we wonʼt be able to make the big statement weʼve all been 92 working for. Youʼll blow our united stance , and weʼll probably double up on audience figures.ʼ ʻIʼm sorry,ʼ the EP rep replied ʻbut the Show Title Tombola Machine has spoken. Sex show is down to be before the ANAL (Sex) Show. We must obey it.ʼ Christ! This was getting heated, and not just because the heating had been switched on to full 93 whack off. ʻWe canʼt do anything about it. The tombola machine is paramount to our programming strategy.ʼ ʻBollocks to the Tombola machine!ʼ said one BSAF member who didnʼt usually say anything. ʻLook,ʼ reasoned the EP director ʻIf we ignore the Tombola machine, we will all be doomed. Weʼre going to have to bring The ANAL (Sex) Show forward. We must do it next week.ʼ There was a sharp intake of breadth. The ANAL (Sex) Show had secured the prized festival slot in a city of 200 festivals, between the February half term and the clocks going back. Any move would be snapped up by one of the numerous other contemporary art festivals that were held in the city, like The Big Show Off Party for Show Offs and The Chatting, Knitting and Cake Biennale. ʻWe canʼt do it weʼve just put an advert in Friezeʼ cried a visibly distraught BSAF member in the darkness. ʻWe must thoughʼ said another ʻthere is no choice. Yes, weʼll lose our slot, but we can get it back. Fierce isnʼt going to last forever you know, I know it feels like it, but it wonʼt. We must stay together on this.ʼ

This was unheard of.

Not a euphemism.

VIVID in a pique of stroppines at the Arts Council costs had installed the best goddamn heaters old MOT garages could have. It was not beyond the world of believability to go to a club night there and leave in the morning with a full tan and no eyebrows. P-Nuts especially was starting to sweat profusely and drip a small puddle of salt crystals; I was deeply worried that this might trickle into the handbag of a Companis member (god knows what it might set off).

There appeared to be a consensus forming. So is that settled? The EP BSAF member cried - ʻWeʼre doing the ANAL (Sex) Show next week right?ʼ ʻYes, Yes…spose if we have to…ʼ was the general murmured response. ʻRight. Sorted. On to other business. Crowd Sex how are those interns fairing with the new rollerblading rules and procedures…ʼ And the meeting went on and on, but just before it must have been time for it to finish it went on a bit more as someone pointed out that the website was shit. Eventually as it started to meander to a close, someone stood up and called for quiet, their jolly tackle brushing against the ikea folding table. ʻNow I just wanted to check. Secrecy is paramount here. Has anyone let out by mistake to a non BSAF member about the plans for the ANAL (Sex) Show? Christ, no ones told The Edge 94 have they? Everyone was quiet. ʻI may have schweeted it a while ago, perhaps I think, Iʼm not sure…ʼ said a Randy Unioner, quietly. ʻShit! Have people at least been making use of the scrambling techniques though? Hopefully 95 this will slow people down.ʼ ʻJesmonite Daveʼs doing a great jobʼ an ASS member said. ʻOnce heʼs locked the Lombardioʼs up at night, he goes out on to the streets of Digside boring people about the Birmingham Art World of 10 000 years ago at bustops. I saw him talking to two coppers the other night. No one will suspect a thing. Iʼm sorry that we had to sacrifice the Lombardioʼs, I hope they are OK. But thereʼs loads of them; theyʼll be ok, and theyʼre 96 young.ʼ ʻIʼve been leaving fake email addresses about, putting them in peoples bags, in pub toilets. If any law-keepers find them, theyʼll be confused. Iʻve also had Liam Gillick's cat causing mayhem down the Custard Centre - if that doesnʼt distract them I donʼt know what will.ʼ ʻIʼve been leaking out the Arts Council Biscuits scandalʼ someone else said. ʻThis will keep the bloggers busy for a day or two.ʼ Iʼve been leaving back issues of Art Monthlies outside factories.ʼ

In between global tours The Edge had set up an Anarcho Community Workshop Art thing that most BSAF members feared going to for political reasons that no one could remember. The Edge were realising new material on a daily basis and had been having meetings in the nude since the Boy tour of 1984. Love Tunnels were planned between the Lombard Method, Club PST and The Edge but a disposable nappy had blocked the initial pilot hole and no one could stomach going back down to retrieve it so plans remained on perpetual hold.

It transpired that there had been deliberate attempts to mislead and prevent people coming in to Digside by the group.

In the course of writing this the average age of the Lombard Method had come down to 6 years old.

Everyone looked at the member who had said this. Someone asked, ʻWhy?ʼ

XIV. Love Tunnel Expansion As the meeting finished, the technologically proficient BSAF members began sending out coded messages on twitter announcing that The Annual National Artist Lead (Sex) Show was to begin next week. Excitement abounded beneath the viaducts. To the untrained eye, the Birmingham Art World probably looked the same over the next week as it did always pockets of frantic activity over a weekend, followed by relative dormancy. Extra volunteers, cub scouts and unwillingly students from the art school had been drafted in to extend the love tunnels from 1.5 m to 3m wide. The love tunnels were frantic over the next few days as organisations prepared the vast 60 000 sq ft underground quarry 97 under The Custard Centre to meet the DDA requirements. Myself and P-Nuts ventured into the love tunnels daily over the next six days to observe what was going on. Everyone was so busy they didnʼt notice us walking round with a video camera; often they assumed that we were with AAS. Documenting this event would be the defining moment of my art career to date and over the next few days I racked up weeks worth of footage of all the organizations hard at it. I can tell you now that whilst The Lombard Method are younger, there sure are some hot bodies in the Randy Unionerʼs…I made a mental note to edit that footage not at Videos R US, but at home with a bar of galaxy and a tub of Blueberry yoghurt. New entrances to the tunnel network were installed all over Digside. If you pressed 6969 into the cash machine on Digside High Street, a small door opened to your right; if you went into Gregory Panks, the hardware store on Digside High Street and said ʻHanky Panky. My Name is Frankyʼ Mr Pank would let you into the back of the shop. Behind two boxes that said ʻHitting stuffʼ and ʻGluing stuffʼ, another tunnel was located; some PPE gear was provided. As for the shows, everything else was on target. VIVID had two enormous screens erected to show off their 5 new films, whilst EP - ever the show boaters - had recruited the services of The Chipenhales: three erotic dancing curators from The Chipenhale Gallery. They were to spend the week training 40 Extra Special People in the arts of post-relational stripping. Randy Union had finished rehearing their pantomime ʻDo You Want To See My Wood? Yes, you do want to see my wood. See my wood.ʼ and were now focusing their efforts on finding enough wood for the pantomime to be a success. And they planned to show a lot of wood. Although not artist-led, the IKON had shown an eagerness to become involved in the festival. Unfortunately they had got the wrong end of the stick and no one had enough guts to tell them. Misinterpreting the coded email and tweets, they thought it was an Annual National Artist Led SAX Show and had flown in a jazz group from New Orleans at great expense. Although the sixty something musicians were slightly bemused at first, they seemed to warm to the festival build up atmosphere, and after watching a preview of Jackson Bollock at VIVID 97

The Custard Centre had issues of their own with the legislation, having to remove the erection from the Green man after it was classified as pornographic, and so were quite happy to rent out the underground quarry to BSAF at a marginally reduced rate.

even appeared in their own porn film ʻOne in the Basquiatʼ whilst making themselves at home on the IKON slow boat with the IKON youth - who assumed they were JLSʼs dads. TROVE had managed to acquire a high-speed rail link to Paris and were planning to whisk off punters on ʻspeed dating exhibitionsʼ whilst installing an artist multiples store in the 98 buffet car. This had caused some tension with the big wigs at BCU who had previously acquired the high speed rail link in an auction on Cash in the Attic and were running a new nd tutorial lecture programme initiative from 2 class carriages on the high speed route. Josh Butler, Henry ʻferreroʼ Roget and John Wriggly had all been sent ahead to prepare triplicate paperwork for students to complete but since TROVE had bought the line they had been ushered off the train at Rugby, where they were believed to be surviving on tic tacs and flapjacks whilst gesticulating wildly at passing carriages. Ever resourceful though, they had set up makeshift seminar groups from bored London commuters and were planning to move the entire Margaret st library to platform 3 because of its proximity to the colour copier in WHSmiths. The Lombard Method, after spending four months with Jesmonite Dave, had finally cracked and put internal differences about the correct diameter of falafel balls to one side by flushing Daveʼs stash of Jesmonite into the canal. Dave, who was now largely comprised of Jesmonite after eating it for 10,000 years, had tried to retrieve it and got wet, setting him rock hard in seconds. He was now trapped in a statue of himself falling awkwardly into a canal. Although alive, his only form of communication or movement was his left eye that blinked intermittently. The Lombard Method planned to use Dave as the main prop in their performance lecture ʻHave You Tried The Lombard Method? which involved explicit demonstrations of how to incorporate a contraception method based purely on square feet in to a loving relationship. Companis, decided not to do anything, as everyone cracked cheap smutty jokes at their name anyway, normally to do with someone having sex with a panini.

XV. The Big Day And so the big day arrived. Thousands of artists descended upon Birmingham from as 99 100 far away as Sheffield and Liverpool . Several special large entrances had been created across Digside to facilitate the arrival process. In a pique of stunning artistic irony these were strategically located in Birmingham Sex Shops - Taboo cinema and the shop near the 101 Caribbean on the Bordesley Road. As means of payment to the shops for allowing BSAF to set up tunnels, all artists passing through had to make a donation of £1 or more when passing through the legs of a cardboard cut out of Sally OʼReilly in suspenders, which was strategically placed at each entrance.

This provided an opportunity for the extras from Sʼexpress who had been locked in the love tunnels under Birmingham since Andy Hunt put them there to hide them from Mark McGowan. As they were all on roller skates they could cover the length of the train in no time by just standing still and letting the train move beneath them. They were happy to work as waiters on the train. Serving lime martinis, vodka with a raspberry couli, Vodka with Lemon Meringue or sometimes just quadruple vodkas especially because they had been locked underground for the last 4 years.

£8 return a month in advance.

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£15 return on the day. Plus complimentary Wine Gums.

Although a group of students from Sunderland Uni had to be rescued from a branch of Victoriaʼs Secrets when one of them got stuck between a Mannequins legs whilst trying to open a mirrored door by waving a green tote bag.

The ʻEventʼ began at 2.00 pm Belgium time as a BSAF representative gave a mumbled introduction to thousands. No one really listened as everyone was pissed, but everyone was quite baffled why he had come in a chicken costume (the event had a fancy dress theme: strong sexual preferences) though most people kept their distance from him after that. The Randy Unionerʼs pantomime turned into farce when they got their wood muddled up. Trying to present wood-types chronologically and in alphabetical order, they had shown their now slightly bored audience a section of Oak before MDF. This upset things a little and the next Randy Unioner panicked, running on stage with a piece of Cedar. Panic turned into pandemonium as all the Randy Unioners ran on stage together showing the audience all their wood at once. An argument broke out and soon a violent battle was taking place on the pantomime stage. The audience, thinking this was part of the performance began to cheer enthusiastically, at which point the Randy Unioners turned on their audience attacking them with large lumps of chipboard and OSB. One audience member was laminated in Styrofoam and was used as an ʻAʼ board for the duration of the show. Largely oblivious to this, The Lombard Methodʼs performance was getting a warm round of applause. Not because contraception by square footage was medically sound, but because everyone enjoyed seeing Jesmonite Dave not been able to talk. The eye was blinking fast mind as they demonstrated how to maximize the i-phone app usability. The final event though was about to begin - the ESP talent show. Myself and P-Nuts had had a great time. It felt like Berlin, or Nuneaton on a Saturday. We secured prime positions. 39 Extra Special People walked on stage covered in henna-tattoo of extinct fonts. It was time for their post-relational strip, which basically involved putting their clothes back on. Everybody fell silent. But then P-Nuts stood up. Oh God, what was he going to do? Was he about to blow our cover? Had he seen a nibble that he didnʼt already have? This wasnʼt good. P-Nuts shouted at the top of his voice: ʻBIRMINGHAM ART WORLD YOU…ʼ Enter the BAZ competition at only 50p a go - mere coppers in your pocket - to guess the ending of the story. The clues are there: Is Liam Gillickʼs email address really that important? What was Jesmonite Daveʼs middle name? Who has the biggest ʻAʼ board? The winner will be announced at Curate Me Out on Saturday 29th October. In The Lamp Tavern (or the Damp Cavern if you must). You could win yourself an Artists Survival Kit. Warm Wishes and Kind Regards BAZ

www.birminghamartzine.com

ÂŠ BAZ 2011

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Made you look.