OUT TO LUNCH
When I was at university way back in the early 1970’s I never once took part in a student protest. This may sound rather feeble on my part but while my fellow scruffy first and second year fellow students were out on the streets protesting against the war in Vietnam or the growing number of people who couldn’t find work I was almost certainly in the bar of the Digger’s Rest (or some similar hostelry) philosophising about the mystery of life over a pint of best bitter.
It wasn’t that I didn’t care about the war in Vietnam or the ever-lengthening dole queues; it was just that I couldn’t see how spending a couple of hours on the streets in chilly weather, waving a placard and chanting a slogan could possibly change anything. And I turned out to be absolutely correct. It didn’t change anything at all.
So one wonders, for example, what the poor idiots who walk very slowly in busy London streets and sit in front of cars as part of the ‘Just Stop Oil’ protest hope to achieve. Do they really think that the large oil companies will suddenly stop drilling for oil and looking for new potential oil fields because a bunch of privileged people with multiple body piercings and blue hair think the planet is going to hell in a handbasket? I somehow doubt it.
Then there are the cretins who superglue their hands to a busy road or chuck soup over an artwork to make their point. The obvious solution to the hand glueing problem is to leave them glued instead of sending police and medical personnel along with all sorts of solvents to unglue them. If you’re dumb enough to glue yourself to a road with the intention of inconveniencing as many of your fellow citizens as possible then you deserve to be left there day and night and in all weathers until one of your fellow activists comes to unglue you.
As for the clowns who invade art galleries and throw paint or soup at the exhibits I am with Messrs Gilbert and Sullivan on this issue. In the words of The Mikado “let the punishment fit the crime”. Take the miscreants, put them in a cage somewhere in the gallery and invite visitors to hurl soup or paint at them through the bars. Who knows, the exhibit could be up for the next Turner Prize.