Disbelievers in Plumage,

One of the forgotten pleasures in my life is reading the local newspaper of my hometown, reading The Metro or The Skinny. They all remind me of a past that is growing more favourable in my clouding memory.

I take the time to read the local newspaper when I return. I miss the serial moaner in the letters page, he grew into his spotlight through time, he became a celebrity in his own livingroom and began to perform for his adoring readership.

Similarly, the letters to the Metro were always a delight. As I rode the morning train to the city daily, I reasoned that I must have been, on many occasions, on the same carriage as an author of one of those missives. The abstract humour was unparalleled, obviously, fair degree of censorship will always be applied, but it’s so special when compared to the conversations that take place in the comments of news websites and online messageboards. On the rare occasion, I do visit the train or bus station, the Metro letters are a rare treat.

The Skinny was always available in the Student Union, I only see it in those trendy shops like Urban Outfitters these days. Generally, when I pick up a copy, I can spend a few days reading all the reviews and articles. I like The Skinny because it lots all of Scotland’s cultural events that are ignored by the mainstream press. In August’s episode, I read about Harry Hill’s art exhibition, although this was covered elsewhere, I found out first in The Skinny.

I never watched the Harry Hill television series; from the outside, the silly collar and the puppets seemed too juvenile for me. I like TV Burp, and after watching the spoof documentary featuring a reunion and compilation of the C4 series, I think I perhaps missed a trick. When I think of my love of Mark and Lard, it’s hard to see why I couldn’t have warmed to Harry Hill’s television series.

The art exhibition was titled My Hobby, and I thought the modesty was wise. Visitors would undoubtedly begin to view the paintings more critically if they were presented seriously. I’ve never really cared for perfection in art, I like impressionism so I would never criticise Hill for being inaccurate in his depictions. I cared more about the ideas.

Hill’s artwork is based on current affairs, or what were current affairs, and our obsession with celebrities. Whilst I like the detail of Crud-Muck and the questions it asks and the zaniness of Phillip Schofield’s Dream, I can’t help but think that this collection is a little obsessed by Chris Tarrant and Bruce Forsyth. When the celebrities of the day have faded, so too will the relevance of these paintings. Ever since Judith Keppel won £1 million pound, Chris Tarrant’s fame has been shrinking so these painted comments already feel dated to me.

Phillip Schofield’s Dream means nothing to me and I like it for that, giant pets prowl the landscape as a swarm of helicopters obscure the sky. I could try to over-analyse it and look for a theme like they would do in some sort of literature analysis in an English class. Perhaps the helicopters represent flying insects, but I can’t comment further. For me, it doesn’t even matter that it is Phillip Schofield.

Whilst I complain about the anachronistic nature of some, my favourite exhibit is Britpop Coconuts. Noel, Damon, Gaz and Jarvis’s faces are seen painted on the sides of coconuts. As the heroes of a generation, they were there to be knocked over.

Satirical cartoonists have their drawings published every day. They strike an amusing blow every day. Harry Hill’s paintings have never been seen in the public domain yet they are perhaps a painted analogy to these daily doodles. Only a more frequent display of his work can prevent it seeming dated, but then, it would no longer be his hobby.