Last week Billy and I went to the Tyrebagger Sculpture Forest to take the dog for a walk. It was misty, rainy and the car park was empty so we knew we had the whole forest to ourselves. About half way into the walk and, by now, pretty deep into the forest, we stumbled upon the single most random thing I have ever seen in my entire life:
A single loafer sitting next to a turd on a rock.
So what happened here exactly? Let’s reason this out.
Okay, we can see that the turd is on top of a rock, quite a distance off the ground and surrounded by plenty of foliage. This leads me to believe that it was not laid by a dog. In fact, out of everywhere in the entire forest, this rock would be the most awkward place for a dog to lay a cable. Using my awesome powers of deduction, I am therefore going to assume that this bum-cigar came from a human.
Now for the shoe. Because both the loafer and the brown-trout are visibly fresh I am going to deduce that they belong to the same, clearly fucked-up person. The type of shoe suggests that this person is either male, or a lesbian. For the sake of argument, and because I’m hesitant to offend lesbians for fear of being raped by one, let’s presume it is a man. We know for sure that this man is an arsehole because only arseholes wear leather loafers. It is also possible that he owns a yacht, has a vast collection of pastel sweaters and uses mental abuse to ensure that his wife never develops a mind of her own. So what about the purpose of the shoe? What the hell happened that justified the abandonment of just one of his shoes? Did he use it to wipe his arse? What kind of maniac wipes his arse with a loafer?
Finally, let’s examine the crime-scene itself. If you were in a forest, bursting for a jobby, you would find the most secluded place possible, wouldn’t you? Behind a bush maybe, or in a ditch perhaps. Not this guy. This sick bastard wants people to see his meaty gorilla-finger. I would even go so far as to say that it is reminiscent of a sacrificial offering – placed at the altar of some sort of shitty-shoe God.
The evidence proves almost conclusively that this can only be the work of a demented lunatic whose mother made him eat shoes whenever he shat himself as a child. However, there is an alternative explanation that can’t be ruled out just yet. Tyrebagger is a sculpture forest, right? There are sculptures in it. Is it possible that Tracey Emin scurried into the forest in the dead of night, in her little lesbian loafers and released a chocolate hostage in the name of art? If this is the case then it’s about fucking time. I went to the Tate Modern once and her ‘art’ was so terrible I actually vomited into my own eyes.
But this? This could work.