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Rockall rocked by Turner Prize rumpus

Rockall was yesterday gripped by Turner Prize polemic fever as bewildered locals struggled to make sense of the latest nominations for the UK's foremost conceptual art prize which will see a shed, a video of someone's granny, a room full of junk and some paintings battle it out or the £25,000 top spot.

A packed Fighting Dog and Pikey entertained heated exchanges as locals vociferously defended their own artistic patch. As snug traditionalist Arthur "Chalky" Black — quietly supping a light and mild in which was suspended a pickled egg — put it: "It's not about whether it's art or not, it's designed to provoke debate about the very nature of art. After all, is this pickled egg art? No. But lower it into a tankful of formaledhyde and stick a £1m price tage on it then yes, it's art."

"No you silly old sod," countered chicken farmer Davey Leveret from the public bar. "Any horse's arse can stick a pickled egg in formaldehyde and call it art. Stick a bloody shark in a tank of the stuff and that's art. Better still, stick a shark in a tank of formaldehyde then put that in a tent on top of an unmade bed and hang a video display over the bed showing pictures of your grandmother sucking eggs call the whole thing 'Granny's Unmade Shark Tent Bed' and then you're talking art."

"So what do you think of this year's nominations, Davey?" asked landlord Vince while dispensing pints of foaming Olde Wifebeater to the survivors of the night's cockling expedition to the Rockall bank. "I hear one of 'em's a bloody painting."

"Total arse," replied Leveret. "The whole lot of it's total arse except for the arse painting by that Gillian Carnegie bird. No-one minds a nice bit of arse hanging over the mantlepiece to welcome a man home after a long day at the EU subsidy forms."

"Can't argue with that, Davey," enthused one young man taking a moment from pumping a week's wages into the Hirst's Helter-Skelter fruit machine. "The western art tradition is all for plenty of bird's arse. Nothing like a rounded filly's rump bent over the coal-effect fire to welcome a man home after a hard day at the guano workings. Proper arse, mind, like that Rubens bloke. He had a handle on a bird's arse, make no mistake."

"Yeah," weighed in Fighting Dog and Pikey pot boy Dave. "Who wants to come home to a conceptual German shed over the one-bar electric fire when you can sink yourself into a proper pair of buttocks while savouring your Pot Noodle?"

Dave's analysis met with a general roar of approval from the entire establishment which immediately prompted Vince to cut a reproduction of Carnegie's Turner-nominated backside from the Mail on Sunday — where it had been serving as a warning against the long-term effects of taking cocaine while at university — and pin it to the dart board.

"Doesn't look much like a sow's arse to me," commented the local vicar, supping a well-earned sherry following a demanding day attempting to convert cockle-pickers to Christianity "in the sure hope of resurrection in the hereafter, ie, about ten minutes after high tide".

"Jesus H. Christ he's right," spluttered our frutie-playing friend. "It's a fuc*king bloke's arse."

"A fuc*king bloke's arse you say?" thundered Leveret. "And they call that fuc*king art?"

Previously

• Fergie rages at Turner prize
• The fallen Angel of the North
• Booker Prize shortlist eschews big names

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