Those were my bags. My bags, filled with my stuff. My stuff, that she chucked out in the street. Grabbed my stuff she did, the bitch, and shoved it in the fucking bin bags that I&rsquo;d fucking bought &ndash; my fucking bin bags! &ndash; and chucked them out the window into the road behind the block. It wouldn&rsquo;t&rsquo;ve been so bad but the silly bint lives on the fifteenth floor and my bloody CD decks were in there and all. Fifteen hundred quids&rsquo; worth of kit that was, ruined, not to mention the splinters that got into my calvins. And then that frigging Gavin Turk artist cunt swanned by in his poxy House of Fairies V-fucking-W camper van and swiped them and cast them all in fucking bronze and according to what Col says is flogging them down at that poncey tent they have in Regent&rsquo;s Park. Fifty grand he&rsquo;s going to get for them, he reckons. Fifty-frigging-grand! I mean, you have got to be having a laugh.And House of Fairies? Fuck that shit. What&rsquo;s all that about then? Bunch of arse bandits talking wank and sitting in the warm while I&rsquo;m out here freezing my tits off. Where the fuck is that wanker Col? He said twenty minutes. Two fucking hours more fucking like. A friend in need is a pain in the arse, that&rsquo;s what my old man always said, and it&rsquo;s certainly a mantra Col&rsquo;s taken to heart. Not that he ever met my old man. Not that that matters. Just as long as he remembers to bring that bloody coat I lent him. And that wrap of beak.I don&rsquo;t see why I shouldn&rsquo;t sue. Way I see it, that is my intellectual property. My stuff, my bags, my shapes. Coleen would no doubt have it that given that it was her what put the bags and stuff together and threw them out the window by rights the creative act was hers. But she hasn&rsquo;t got a leg to stand on given that she says it was me what caused the row we had, and so therefore fine: I caused the row by boning her sister&rsquo;s cousin, which makes me the prime instigator, QED intellectual property = mine. I mean, what I could do with fifty grand. That&rsquo;s more than twice what I ripped off from that cash point Col and me ram-raided that night with that digger what we found. It was just too tempting, that was. Sitting right there in behind one of those flimsy metal fences on a building side right next to the bank. So easy to jump they might as well&rsquo;ve left the bloody keys in it, the wuzzocks. We were pissed and that, or we wouldn&rsquo;t&rsquo;ve taken a crack at it, I mean it wasn&rsquo;t worth three years, we were only having a laugh. But really, for fuck&rsquo;s sake, what were they expecting? They should take more responsibility for things like that, have them properly locked up. Anything could&rsquo;ve happened. Someone might&rsquo;ve got hurt. Other than that plod. Either way we didn&rsquo;t come away with it with anything like fifty-frigging grand, I can tell you that for free.And they&rsquo;ve got them on show in a tent for fuck&rsquo;s sake, so the security can&rsquo;t be bollocks. It&rsquo;s Danny Mattoc&rsquo;s crew what got the contract for the lockdown, and streak of piss in the wind that he is we could probably walk out with the bloody things in a barrow for all the trouble it would take. Though them being bronze, that might be hard, and then what are you going to do with them? I mean what kind of fence is going to hand over fifty large for five bronze bin bags? I&rsquo;d end up having to melt the fucking things down and sell &rsquo;em for scrap, and given what I&rsquo;d get for them it probably wouldn&rsquo;t be worth the hassle. What&rsquo;d happen is, I&rsquo;d just have to dump them back on the street, which would be somewhat ironical, all things considered. And then the whole game of soldiers could start off again, with Turk swinging by to pick them up so he could cast them again and extract another wodge of moullah out of some other wanker banker with more house than nous. Though I&rsquo;d like to see him hoist them in that prick-tease little fairy-wagon this time around. If they didn&rsquo;t go straight through the floor they&rsquo;d burst the tyres or snap the wishbones. And then were would the fucking fairies be, eh? Eh? Bitch! How fucking dare she? What didn&rsquo;t I do for her? What didn&rsquo;t I give her? Fucking cows, whores the lot of them, all that I love you let me fuck you crap when they only want one thing: a long fat length of wallet. Not that I&rsquo;m likely to be able to have much of that, not working construction shifts for cash like this &ndash; and where is that wanker Col? &ndash; not unless I win the frigging lottery, which is hardly likely since it&rsquo;s three years since I bought a bloody ticket. Either that or I go out and mug an artist, which should see me alright for a while given that the whole world seems to have decided to give them good hard cash for the oldest bloody rope. I just don&rsquo;t get it, I really don&rsquo;t. Maybe I should get into art myself, I could do better than half these jokers, I really fucking could. That ram-raid, that was art, it really was, and we were bloody pissed. And those bin bags, they&rsquo;re mine for fuck&rsquo;s sake, like I said, I should bloody sue. I wonder if could get legal aid?And where the fuck is Col?&copy; James Flint, November 2008www.jamesflint.nethttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/James_Flint_(British_novelist)

Those were my bags. My bags, filled with my stuff. My stuff, that she chucked out in the street. Grabbed my stuff she did, the bitch, and shoved it in the fucking bin bags that I’d fucking bought – my fucking bin bags! – and chucked them out the window into the road behind the block. It wouldn’t’ve been so bad but the silly bint lives on the fifteenth floor and my bloody CD decks were in there and all. Fifteen hundred quids’ worth of kit that was, ruined, not to mention the splinters that got into my calvins.

Kicked Out (after “Pile” by Gavin Turk)

Aeroplastics Contemporary, Brussels

Ben Brown Fine Arts, London

David Nolan Gallery, New York

Galerie Krinzinger, Vienna

Maruani Mercier, Brussels & Knokke

Paul Stolper, London

Reflex, Amsterdam

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Kicked Out (after “Pile” by Gavin Turk)James Flint1 Jun 04