A comedy sketch that's ended up midway between Not News and Short Stories

Contrary to popular belief, the famous painter J.M.W. Turner did not die in 1851, but was cryogenically preserved, at his own request, in order to see what had become of the large fortune he had bequeathed to benefit those he called “decayed artists”. Due to global warming, his body was naturally defrosted one October evening, during refurbishments on the Sainsbury Wing of the National Gallery, when a workman dropped his mug of tea through a hole in a staircase and activated the nineteenth-century freezer unit. Having been put to sleep during a cholera epidemic, his first words were, as he raised his head and looked down at his naked body, “I appear to have a monstrous carbuncle adorning a much-loved and elegant friend”.

The Tate thus decided it would be only fitting to make him one of the judges in the highly-coveted Turner Prize. After all, it had been named in his honour.

I was one of the privileged few journalists who accompanied Mr. Turner and his entourage as they previewed the potentially award-winning work of the men and women competing for the accolade of Britain’s most prestigious artist. Plus £25,000 and unlimited bondage with Charles Saatchi. I can therefore offer a blow-by-blow account.

Mr. Turner was not in good health, and during spasmodic coughing fits, discharged copious amounts of black phlegm over the well-polished floor. Although he complained about the lack of sunrises, sunsets and snowstorms on display, any evidence of the eccentricity for which he had been famed in later life, was purely circumstantial.

As he explained upon entering the gallery:
“They said I was mad, you know, just because I used to stand on railway lines and sketch locomotives hurtling towards me. Mind you, they said my mother was mad as well, and all she ever did was open a rest home for bewildered pit canaries in Margate. We had a cockatoo the spitting image of Disraeli. Used to sing the Greek national anthem on one leg wearing a slipper and a wig. Is that a toupee under your arm, Madam? Why are we standing in the toilets?”

At this juncture, one of the judges pointed out that these were not the toilets, but the first exhibit. It consisted of a line of gleaming white porcelain wash-basins and had been aptly entitled “The Ethereal Politics of Bathroom Fittings”. At regular intervals a bubble would begin to inflate in one of the plug-holes, and upon bursting, a rendition of the Warsaw Concerto would emanate from the U-bend. It is, I believe, a unique monument to the history and expansion of 21st century Polish plumbing in Western Europe.

Mr. Turner had only one real criticism to make of the work, as he threw up over it.

“You know what this needs, don’t you. Steam. Masses and masses of steam. That’s what I used to do. Cover the thing in billowing clouds of the stuff, so instead of a wash-basin, you get the impression of a wash-basin, which is much better. If we turn on all the hot taps for half an hour, I think you’ll see what I mean.”

Having unsuccessfully tried to turn on the first tap, he struck it hard with his walking stick.

“Damned thing’s broken. You need a plumber,” he said, scowling. “Shall we move on, then. I’ve only got two months to live.”

The catalogue described the second exhibit as “various detritus from in and out of the artist’s studio, plus things she found on the road.” It was therefore the favourite. In 2004, this heap of rubble had been cleverly converted into a row of terraced houses just outside Salford, before being subsequently restored to its original condition, thus giving it the name “Shit-Houses-Shit” (and, on occasions, “Shit-Shit-Shit”).

“It’s mainly dust, hair and organic spaghetti,” explained the judge. “But somewhere, if I’m not mistaken, there lies a penis erection pump. With an attachment for removing unwanted boils. Ah, there it is. Poking through the hole in the tea-cosy.”

Given his condition, Mr. Turner expressed warm enthusiasm for such a gadget and, turning to the assembled crowd, asked if anyone wished to see the “monstrous carbuncle” dangling between his legs.

“I’m sure there will be a suitably sound surgical solution for you,” remarked the judge, diplomatically.

“That’s easy for you say,” replied the artist. “I haven’t had sex for a hundred and fifty years. If I ejaculated from the main entrance right now, the bloody thing’d probably shoot over Tower Bridge. You know what this exhibit needs? Smoke. Clouds and clouds of smoke. Cavorting, gigantic, undulating puffs of the stuff, everywhere. Then, instead of a pile of shit, you get the impression of a pile of shit, which is much better. Have you got a match so we can set light to it?”

Which, funnily enough, was the same question asked by the critic from the Evening Standard the day before.

“They slated me for being indistinct, you know. Indistinct, my arse. I used to tell them “indistinctness, gentlemen, is my forte”. It was my catchphrase. I knew how to put down the hecklers in those days.”

The final exhibit was entitled “Definition by Absence”. It consisted of a mass of names written on various items of clothing strewn haphazardly over a lathe. All the names had one thing in common.

“So, we have here, for example,” explained the judge, “the words Ike and Tina, Frederick Jackson, Kathleen, Bachmann, Overdrive. They all point to one other key name.”

The artist naturally looked bemused.

“It’s you, Sir. Turner.” the judge revealed. “You have been sculpturally demarcated by your absence.”

“But I’m not absent. I’m here.” replied Turner. “You know what this exhibit needs? Fire! Fire! I adore fire. I remember seeing the Houses of Parliament go up in flames once, a raging inferno that woke up all the politicians and created a national emergency. And you know what I did?”

“What?” asked the judge.

“Jumped in a boat and painted it. If it hadn’t been for that idiot Lord Melbourne and his bloody fire engines, I’d have polished off more than a dozen canvases that afternoon.”

At which point, the famous artist J.M.W. Turner made a decision. Given that this was an open competition, he proposed to enter it himself, and summoned forth his masterpiece “The Fighting Temeraire” from the National Gallery.

“Even if you resigned as a judge,” they told him, “you would not be allowed to enter the competition.”

“Why not?” replied Turner, indignantly. “Didn’t you just say it was all about people’s freedom of expression?”

“It is all about people’s freedom of expression,” said the judge. “Provided that you’re under the age of fifty.”

Turner was outraged. He concluded that, as it was his own bloody prize, he could change the rules as he damned well liked. And decide who won it. It was the first time an oil painting had received the prestigious award since its inauguration in 1984.
 

Within six weeks he was dead again. However, with the money he received, the famous painter J.M.W. Turner was able to rest in peace, comforted by the satisfaction that he would no longer have to endure his monstrous carbuncle. Unlike Prince Charles. Who still has to live with his.

As a footnote, Mr. Turner left one express recommendation to the people of Britain. It was read out during the oration at his second funeral in St. Paul’s Cathedral:

“If you decide to have your body cryogenically preserved, do it when you’re young. Rather than waiting until you’re a terminally ill pensioner with chronic lumbago and sciatica, and have only two months to live. I suggest about twenty-five, just after your first-born child”.