Stealing art from Tate Britain: It’s child’s play

I went back to Tate Britain yesterday to take a last look at the ‘Impressionists in London’ exhibition. (It closes on 7^th May) I was a bit rude about it on a previous occasion but wanted to see Monet’s wonderful fog shrouded pictures of Big Ben and parliament once again.

I got there bang on 10 o’clock when the gallery opens, brandished my member’s card, and made directly for the Monet’s which are in the penultimate room. Although other punters were invading the earlier rooms, I had the Monet’s and the Whistler Nocturnes to myself.

Wandering out through the Duveen Galleries, the main space opposite the Millbank entrance, I spotted a young couple with two toddlers. The kids were charging about among the statues and generally having a great time. I guess it’s the combination of the open spaces where they can run plus the colours and strange shapes of the art that appeals.

All of which reminded me of an occasion, years ago, when my three-year-old daughter and I paid a visit. We walked in to one of the galleries and were met with the unusual sight and sound of a security guard wearing a blaring walkie-talkie. Perhaps he was upset by one of the more visually arresting Francis Bacon pictures, but he was babbling into a microphone while the radio on his belt was turned up full, so everyone could hear the anodyne chat coming from the control room. There was no emergency underway.

Of course, even though people were irritated, being British, nobody said anything. If you listened closely you could just hear some gentle tutting. Finally, I went up to the guy and asked him to turn down his radio as it was getting on everyone’s nerves. He gave me a shirty look, had me figured as a poncey, pretentious git, but complied.

Meanwhile the daughter was making her way, at some speed, into the next room. When you want three-year-olds to move they stick like glue, but they can give Usain Bolt a run for his money if so minded. I followed closely to see her bearing down on an Anthony Gormley sculpture of fruit laid out on the floor at perfect toddler level.

I kind of knew what was going to happen. Just as the security guard entered, she grabbed a silver pineapple and looking very pleased with herself tore out of the room. The guard approached with a menacing look that seemed to indicate all his Christmases had come at once and that the pretentious, poncey git was going to get it with both barrels.

Deciding that discretion was the better part of valour, and before plod could say a word, I raced after the toddler, wrenched the pineapple from her hands, put it back on its pedestal and within thirty seconds the two of us were standing outside with the security guard sucking up the dust from my departing heels. There are some fights you can’t win.

Close-up of a girl's face — Jenny Saville

Last word: Yesterday I also went to see the ‘All too human’ exhibition at Tate Britain. It has spectacular paintings by Freud, Bacon and Kitaj. It also introduced me to a wonderful artist I’d not come across before: Euan Unglow.

Younger painters feature in the last room and the severe close-up of a woman’s face by Jenny Saville really needs to be seen. The exhibition is on until 27^th August: Don’t miss it.

X Rated Television

These days if you watch TV after the nine o’clock watershed, swearing is everywhere. Drama dialogue and unscripted chat shows are liberally spiced with the F word. The continuity announcers seem to relish it: ‘The next programme contains strong language right from the start’ they say, giving the indication there’s some hot stuff on the way.

This is fine with me as I swear quite a lot – too much according to my wife. But it wasn’t always like this. I remember years ago on the Old Grey Whistle Test (It was a music programme) some hairy rocker offered up an unexpected ‘fuck’ and I thought the roof was going to fall in. Even the somnambulant Bob Harris almost woke up. Now swearing is commonplace and Mary Whitehouse must be summersaulting in her grave.

Despite this we try to keep our fourteen-year-old daughter safe and have put a lock on the TV to prevent her watching 18 rated shows. As my wife says, you can’t unsee what you’ve seen. I think she might be a bit of a soothsayer.

But here’s the problem, wife and self are not technically adroit and besides that we’ve forgotten the password needed to unlock the TV. So, what do we do when we want to view an 18 show on Netflix or iPlayer? Well obviously, we call our daughter and she taps in the code.

Wait a minute…

Terror on the tube: Inspector Sands to the rescue

I don’t want to alarm you but if while riding on the tube you hear an announcer say: “Would Inspector Sands report immediately to security” you may be part of an unfolding terror attack.

Apparently ‘Inspector Sands’ is the bland formulation used to alert staff, but not the public, that trouble might be brewing. What you don’t want in times of crisis is an announcer going into the ‘we’re all doomed’ routine, so the fictitious inspector fits the bill.

I know about this because my 14-year-old daughter told me and as far as can be established said 14-year-old has never been wrong about anything, ever.

Following some in depth google-research on my part it seems there might be something to it. Apparently, it originated in theatres and was used in case of fire. The name Sands being selected because they used sand to put out the fire.

And now you’re thinking: For heaven’s sake Jim, Inspector Sands because they use sand to put out the fire? Well please yourself, but the 14-year-old claims to have heard the announcement twice: once at Clapham South and once as Waterloo. She came through without a scratch.

Recipe corner: Jim’s Kickin’ Chicken

When it comes to cooking, I’m not really an improviser, not a jazz cook, I don’t slosh in a bit of this and a bit of that to see what culinary delight might occur, I just do what Jamie Oliver says. If I don’t, the result will likely be a congealed mess stuck to the bottom of a pan.

A few years ago, I was given the Heston Blumenthal cook book; it was like doing GCSE chemistry and about as much fun. And what is the point of cooking chips three times?

But on Tuesday of this week, there was revolution in the air. I actually made up a dish. The wife had said, there’s some chicken thighs and a couple of courgettes in the fridge, see what you can rustle up. So, I did and it was not a complete coq-up. Certain members of the family (the daughter) who are not slow to criticise dad, went so far as to say it was quite good.

With that kind of full-throated endorsement ringing in my ears I thought I’d share this ground- breaking concoction with you.

So here it is: Jim’s Kickin’ Chicken

The ingredients:

Chicken thighs 500 grams
2 courgettes
Can of tomatoes (not sliced)
Half an onion
Harissa Paste
Plain Yoghurt
Fresh coriander
Basmati rice 250 grams

First up, scoop some harissa paste into a largish glass bowl. I wasn’t paying much attention here, so how much harissa paste I’m not sure – let’s say a couple of good dollops. Open the yogurt pot and ladle in a similar amount and mix thoroughly with the harissa. Now put the chicken in among the gloop and smear all over. This is quite messy but acts as a good moisturiser if your skin is a little dry.

Pour a squirt of olive oil into a frying pan and braise (is that the right word?) the chicken thighs; this should take three or four minutes. Don’t make the pan too hot, otherwise the chicken and its gloop will burn. Once done take the chicken thighs out of the pan and put them where the dog can’t get at them.

Get the frying pan going again – hang on I’ve forgotten to tell you to put the oven on, so do that now to say 175 degrees, no idea what that would be if you were using gas. Once the olive all in the pan is spitting a bit, slice in half an onion, cook for five minutes and then add the sliced courgette and then cook for another five. Don’t slice the courgettes too thin or they’ll turn to mush.

Now you need a lidded pot that you can put in the oven, I’m thinking stew pot here. Put the chicken in the pot along with the onions, courgettes and all the gloop, add the tin of toms and half a can of water. Season with pepper and salt and heat it all up on the stove.

I once heard Jamie Oliver say that sliced canned tomatoes were very bitter and it was better to always use unsliced. I have no idea if this is true, but I follow this rule religiously and actually look down on people who buy sliced tomatoes.

Once all the ingredients in the pot are hot (perhaps you can see the liquid bubbling a bit) give it all a good stir, pop on the lid and ram it in the oven. Leave it there for around an hour, stirring occasionally. (Don’t let it dry out, perhaps it might be better to cook for slightly longer at 150 degrees. Look I’m not the expert here)

By now you will be getting hungry so put on the basmati rice, this is the stuff that doesn’t take too long to cook. Chop up the coriander, take the pot out of the oven and sprinkle the chopped coriander over the contents, giving a final stir and checking whether you need more salt. Dish up and graciously accept the praise that your guests will be heaping upon you as they heap second helpings on to their plates.

Of course, I have a sneaking suspicion that when I try this dish again it will all turn to ashes, but we live in hope. Do let me know how you get on.