High priestess of London

This morning I walked past an ad for a church called ‘The Church of London Reality.’ Ironically it had been posted on the frontage of a Foxtons. It tempted me to attend mass for the first time in years. Confession at school had put me off as I had found myself constantly lying to the priest about things I hadn’t done just so I could get out of there as fast as possible.

According to the poster the service started at 10.30am. I was embarrassingly unable to work out what time it was, as the clocks had changed at midnight. Despite having several degrees under my belt I was unsure whether the clock had gone forwards or backwards. I mentally drafted a letter to the two universities in question for a full refund for my education.

I wanted to go to the church out of sheer curiosity: I mean what happens in the Church of London Reality? I had images of kids shooting up in the pews and images of just plain old shootings. I wondered most of all who the priest would have been. I answered my own question as I recalled the Tracey Emin lecture I had attended a few weeks back.

Thinking about the lecture, I became convinced that Tracey Emin would be the priest at my new favourite church. At this same moment she also found her way onto my hypothetical list of people who I would like to invite to my fantasy dinner party, (fantasy, firstly because I don’t cook and secondly because I had also planned on inviting loads of corpses.) I am still undecided whether it would be more dangerous to seat Emin next to Napolean or Cleopatra. Perhaps she is best next to Cleopatra; I don’t want to scare Napolean off home before the main course.

Emin arrived to her lecture late. Parking, traffic and public transport surely are three of the vices that the Church of London Reality will warn us all against. Her first words into her microphone were, ‘Can we get a bottle of wine up here?’ As a result, throughout the interview whenever she was asked a question there was a good chance she had a mouthful. The benefit for the audience was one less obscenity.

When she did speak, her answers (regardless of what the question was) invariably involved underage sex, abortion, smoking, drinking and poverty. It was like listening in to an NSPCC helpline call. She was a woman who had literally seen everything…and as an audience member, I can now say I have heard everything.

Emin was a woman of the people in not only speech but dress, dressed in black and wearing heavy cowboy boots. The outfit would have made it possible for her to disappear into crowds at Tesco, and yet gain her entrance to any restaurant or club in London. The greatest benefit of living in London is that black tie just means ‘please look arty.’ As I listened to her talk I kept trying to ruffle my hair to give the impression that I too might be on the brink of artistic greatness (if my bed was anything to go by, I was mighty close.) She was also bronzed like any other Londoner in September. Those than can afford it have been to the South of France or to Spain, whilst the rest of the locals settled for a sun bed.

At the end of the lecture she offered to sign copies of her new book ‘One Thousand Drawings’, a book (as the creative title would suggest) which contains one thousand drawings. Most of these involved vaginas. It was a bit like flicking through Hugh Hefner’s second grade exercise book.

I had selected the exact drawing within the book that I wanted her to sign (vagina count: zero.) The drawing was, in fact, about writing and she herself, on being asked what her favourite genre of art was, had replied ‘writing.’ I was ready to worship her, in church or otherwise. When it was my turn to present the book for signing she asked, ‘Don’t you want me to sign the front? I explained that I wanted this particular page signed so that I could frame it and hang it above my desk.

‘You’re going to tear up my book?’ She asked. I repeated my plan and again she asked, ‘You’re going to tear up my book?’ The penny finally dropped. I realised what she was saying was ‘Don’t tear up my fucking book.’ She repeated herself and in the end all I said to her was, ‘I’m a bit scared of you right now, so I’ll do anything you want.’ She laughed. I wasn’t kidding.

So I could think of no more qualified a priest for The Church of London Reality than a scary, cowboy boot wearing, foul mouthed, wine guzzling, and highly creative woman…especially if she is somewhat preoccupied with female genitalia.

As I sit and type, I look up at my framed, signed Tracey Emin drawing hanging above my head. She’d understand. She’d know that the reality of London is that no one listens to anyone else. In church or otherwise.