Artist Stephen Poffcock has opened his parent’s house to the public, part of an ongoing installation piece he’s creating based on ‘the meaninglessness of the middle classes’. As thousands troop through the Poffcock household, the artist is always present, presiding at times horizontally, at others vertically, in a soiled bathrobe.
Q: Is the bathrobe part of the exhibit?
SP: Yes, it’s an indication of what a man of intelligence and sensitivity will be driven to when forced to rely on people tainted by the stench of their own bourgeois background.
Q: Isn’t this just an excuse not to move out?
SP: Of course not. My parents perfectly represent a generation trapped between embracing technology and only dimly understanding it. They’re future relics. My installation is a future time capsule.
Mrs P: More tea? A macaroon?
P: (In a bitter aside) For her, macaroons are a way of locating herself in her brittle societal bubble…
Q: Like a sort of cakey lifeboat bobbing along on an ocean of tea?
P: Just so. (Turning suddenly to his mother) For God’s sake mum, you know I don’t take sugar!
Mrs P: Sorry dear, only there are so many people…
Q: I’ll take another macaroon.
P: (Leaning close, in a menacing whisper) that’s a piece of her soul you’re devouring, I hope you know that.
Mr. P: (looking strained) Oh, all still here? I’ll er…I’ll just pop some Barry Manilow on the stereo then.
SP: It’s not a stereo Dad. It’s a CD PLAYER. You see what he’s been reduced to? A husk of a human being…
Q: Isn’t this all a bit of an imposition?
SP: That’s the point! They’re incapable of expressing their rage! Whereas you or I would tweet or blog about how angry we are, they have no outlet…
(Barry Manilow’s ‘Can’t smile without you’ begins to play in the background) Inside they’re seething with rage…aren’t you mother?
Mrs. P: (With a vacant smile) Yes, dear.
The Poffcock’s will be at home indefinitely. All contributions welcome, see Stephen Poffcock. Tea will be provided if Mr. Poffcock has had time to get to the shops.