Turd in a white wine sauce

After ten years on loan to the National Gallery, Damien Hirst sold his ‘Turd in a white wine sauce’ to a private collector for an undisclosed fee.

As a respected connoisseur of the arts I have access to many private collections and have to date seen no less than 1,137 turds in a white wine sauce. I can’t even comprehend how much Hirst must have made from the sale of all these turds, each one would have fetched somewhere in the region of £100 million.

With a lesser artist you would simply call it a scam, but with Hirst, the art is all mischief. To be the victim of a Hirst con trick is simply to participate in his art; he should charge more for the fakes.

Not all of Hirst’s turds are the same. The majority are long and hard, just like the original displayed in the National, but others are best described as a collection of turdettes, elite gatherings of miniaturised turds. Even these, however, sustained the distinctive Hirst character. Though I have seen well over a thousand turds, they are clearly all the work of the same man.

Which is why when I saw the turd sitting there, in the Heathrow toilet, I recognised it straight away as a Hirst original. It was in classic Hirst pose, taut and telling. Though it wasn’t preserved in a white wine sauce, in every other way it was a work of art.

I had to have it.

I was travelling to Venice to present an award at some festival or other. I was travelling sans baggage, all I had on me was the suit I was wearing. I could go to the shops, purchase a bag or similar container, but that would entail the risk that the turd would disappear before I could return.

There was nothing else for it. I rolled up the sleeves of my suit and delicately nestled the turd into my hands, like a seasoned poacher tickling a trout. Luckily this was a firm, hard Hirst, not one of his cluster turdettes, and it remained intact as I brought it to the surface.

I had gathered together as much toilet paper as there was available. I rested the prize exhibit on the paper, gently towelling it dry, though careful not to damage it. Eventually the turd was as dry and portable as I was going to get it. I gently enveloped it in the remaining toilet paper and slipped it into my inside jacket pocket. I flushed the used paper away, ensuring that there was no evidence of my prize.

I washed my hands very thoroughly and exited the toilet.

My plan had been to buy a bag in one of the airport shops, popping the turd inside and carrying it onto the plane. I had already passed through security so there would be no further checks. However, capturing and packaging the turd had taken much longer than I had anticipated, over half an hour, and looking at the departure board I realised I had to leave immediately for the departure gate if I was to catch my flight. I did ponder whether I should delay for a later flight so that I could find somewhere secure to leave my turd, but my reputation is such that I can’t afford to miss any more conferences without good reason. Several of the major festivals have banned me from appearing, not for any bad behaviour but simply because I am always late.

I just about had time to buy a drink from a newsagents and used the plastic bag to cover the turd. I felt more secure, the plastic bag and paper would between them soak up any leakage. Once in Venice I would look up a friend who specialised in this form of art, and leave the turd in his capable hands. I hadn’t decided yet whether to sell it or to add it to my own collection.

There was nowhere to hang my jacket, it was one of the ghastly commercial flights where business class passengers are treated slightly less respectfully than factory chickens. I couldn’t risk putting the turd in the locker, the dangers it would face there, so I had no choice but to retain it in the pocket of the jacket I was wearing.

I received a few stares, I was immune to the aroma myself, having wallowed in the turd’s essence for so long, but it became clear that others had noticed that I smelt distinctly of shit. Still, nothing I could do.

Just before take-off a fat business man sat in the seat next to me. Poor man, he kept blowing his nose, fanning his face. I was afraid he was going to make a complaint, would expose me for the turd carrier I was, but eventually he settled down to watching the in-flight film.

I fell asleep, dreaming the usual dream of being a child again, having my face held down the toilet by the school bully. But this time, for the first time, it was a happy dream, for I found in the toilet a gold brick, enough gold to make me rich, to free me from the world of bullies forever.

I awoke to chaos. Air turbulence, followed by engine trouble. The plane careered from left to right, up and down, violent jerks. All of this compounded by the silence from the right side engine, a fact eventually confirmed by the pilot. We would, he reassured us, be entirely safe flying with one engine, though just to be safe, we would be landing at the nearest available airport, somewhere in France.

As a once aspiring artist I recognised the sights around me as pure art. People in terror, their in-flight films and books forgotten, many were crying, some were writing final messages, just in case. The cabin smelt of 200 people sweating with the fear of death, sweat, fear and shit. Oh.

I checked my pocket. The turd was no more, somewhere in the crush, the rush, the panic, my turd had been squashed. All that remained was a poo smoothie.

I went to the toilet, scooped up all the poo I could manage and disposed of it. I stank, even in Venice I would stand out, stinking of excrement as I was, and I would have no opportunity to change clothes. Christ, people might think I’m French. But I didn’t care, offending a few artists with my odour was nothing compared to my loss.

As I flushed I waved goodbye to my Hirst, the squishy, shitty remains of my hopes, my dreams.

But maybe, maybe, I would see a Hirst turd again and next time, I promised myself, I would be better prepared. Next time, I promised myself, for the first time, my dreams would not end in a stream of shit.