Damien Hirst and Keith Chegwin on the roof of the Groucho, idiotic criminals tossing traffic cones on shoppers, champagne blerts on all class of persian rugs and having a laugh as a stream of fawning audience members line up to be insulted and abused by them in the name of art. A bacon butty smeared on a lightswitch and disposable Glasto tent hung from a naked tramp, dead on commision.

Art as reality, in yer bleddy gob suckers, us the audience paying 500 euro in for a pre-opening VIP after show/party/ensemble/ gathering of rich Art lovers wanting only reality to taunt us for the ridiculously easy lives we have managed to secure ourselves as capital bores.

Part of the event is a stuffing of wads of moolah up tim's arse, the de-capitalised tramp denied his dignity, naked and cut in two, glued to thin glass, his body painted as the well known martyr, Jesus, nailed to the door of John Lennons Weybridge white house, opening apart, shocking the audience at the critical crux of the Happening, as five packets of bangers Cheggers has cunningly strapped to a thin bomb vest, hidden beneath imitational flesh, explode onto the latex mould of a real bomb victim, all under a deceptively slim pastel sweater, that makes Kieth appear chunky, at his cuddly best, winner of the non stop smile-athon earlier in the day, that kicked the Happening off.

Damien bladdered at the denouement of tims head rolling off as Paul Newman goes to work, hired for the night for 10 million dollars by damien, to play a part and yet remain sworn to secrecy until the book launch the next day, when the gag is revealed to the nations press.

A hack sent to simper, into the wet morn, forgetting her ticket and umbrella and being turned away, its pissing down and her hair's beyond all hope, as cheggars dashes out asking if he can borrow her mobile to ring the bookies..