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The owl with the green heart-shaped face of a "cheeky chappie" might well have been a more pleasant image if, say, he bore the face instead of, I don't know, Fozzy Bear or Algy Pug. As it is, even I find him a bit disturbing and even repulsive in the oily fixity of his gaze. Like Bob Monkhouse or Laurence Olivier. The dictates of the painting, however, fashioned him, even though, as often happens, I almost dislike myself for it. What if the truth of the painting had demanded a scene of throat slitting and anal penetration with a still-bristly courgette? What then? The woman, Lucille, is bursting for a pee and asks her chauffeur, Coombe, whether or not he thinks it advisable for her to beg the use of a toilet at the house on the hill. Coombe, in reply, shrugs his shoulders, but if I were in Lucille's place I'd tie a knot in it and drive on, wouldn't you? |
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