The unravelling of the world in September coincided with the two-day sale of carnage by Damien Hirst, moans Mrs. M.  The grotesque spectacle netted Hirst £96m, and left us with an art world populated by Golden Calves with solid gold hooves and diamond encrusted skulls.

As Wall Street recorded its greatest losses ever, and the ordinary investor confronted fears for jobs, pensions and savings, we were reading about a 110lb solid gold statue of Kate Moss unveiled at the British Museum and a £350,000 Quinn sculpture for the National Portrait Gallery.  The Quinn self-portrait is a head made from the artist’s own frozen blood.  Then there was the opening of the new Saatchi Gallery at the Duke of York’s military headquarters, where one can experience art from China, including a giant turd packed with toy soldiers.

Here is silly art resulting from greed in all its forms:  art world greed meets financial world greed,  rampant with con artists.  I feel embarrassed for the British Museum and the National Portrait Gallery for caving into such tasteless gimmicks.  Dealers in decadence are running at the head of a pack who only think of art as a commodity.

Gone is the rare and beautiful, the exquisitely crafted and impossible to imitate, which lifts us out of ourselves into a world which redeems the spirit.  Hello vulgar, predictable, ludicrous art which is nothing new as there is nothing new, or enduring, about silly art.

My friend at Sotheby’s tells me there will probably be a fire sale of Hirsts soon, as they certainly won’t hold their value.  I’m glad to hear it.  Bah, Humbug.