Damian Hirst - eat your heart out!

God, isn't it a depressing time? The country is officially in recession, the arse has fallen out of the stock market – particularly the financial sector to which I am heavily exposed – and my house is worth a couple of hundred thousand euros less than it was a year ago, and with further to fall. All thoughts of divorce must be deferred.

How to find a suitable scam to reverse these severe financial setbacks?

Then I read of Damian Hirst’s recent auction results at Sotheby’s – in two days he sold over stg£100m of his art, aka crap. His is the ultimate scam – it’s “conceptual art” so he doesn’t even need to make the damn things himself, merely come up with the idea and get some workshop to make the piece, to which he only has to append his signature.

So I headed into Fannin’s medical suppliers in town and bought a plastic skull. Then down to Wicklow where I collected several sacks of sheeps droppings – those rounded pebbles of shit they leave scattered like black currants on the grass.

Now I’m busy, rubber-gloved, sticking the little balls of sheep shit to the skull which I’m hopeful of exhibiting and selling for a small fortune, even if it’s just a serious piss-take on the works of Master conman Hirst. Of course, my artistic skull isn’t that pleasant to handle and, in hot weather, the whiff is pretty foul, but that shouldn’t deter the serious art poseur. Collectors too must be prepared to suffer for their art, after all.

Hirst’s diamond encrusted skull in titled “For the Love of God”. I’m sure my effort will evoke a similar response, perhaps with even more gusto.

Of course, to stage an “exhibition” I’ll need more than just one piece so I’m also working on a major formaldehyde exhibit, “Motion in poetry”. I thought that one of my turds suspended in a glass case would rival Hirst’s famous multi-million £ sharks. My inspiration was a former work colleague who, returning from the loo after a successful drop, would inform all and sundry “that one will be stalking the sewers”.

Naturally, such an installation will also require a truly specimen-class stool and my efforts to date have been frustrated by the piles. Routine inspection of the drop has, to date, failed to reveal a suitable specimen. Nevertheless, I remain confident that my increased intake of bran will, in due course, produce the goods.

After that I have in mind a series of projectile vomit paintings that should sell like hot cakes.

There’ll be no stopping me!