In a tank in an art gallery is a very large shark. Ok if you look closely it is shedding skin round its edges. But its still a very large shark. Complete with open mouth and a lot of flesh-shredding teeth. It's Damien Hirst. The cunt is not a lot older than me. And an awful lot richer. Its named for a line in an essay he wrote that he particularly liked - the Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living. Yes Damien, you are very fucking clever. Because its true, I can't imagine not being alive. And I don't want to. Though I tried to as I stood in front of Mr Hisrt's cunty big fucking shark. In fact the security guard at the Tate Modern told me it was best were I to stand right in front of its open jaws. Jaws indeed. Very amusing pop culture reference Mr Security Guard - you have a career in stand-up just waiting for you. But yes, I'll give it to the uppity cunt, it is very hard to imagine oneself dead. Though his exhibition helped. A dove, bursting into flight, in a cube of preserving fluid; butterflies - caterpiller, chyrisilis, insect - all in a brightly lit indoor room; then their fragile little wings turned into stained glass mandallas. Yep - after all that horror and god knows how many extinguished cigarettes, I wasn't having too much trouble picturing death. Which I think might be his point. Death is all too close, too much of the time. And those mandallas are lovely, really lovely - till you see the thousands of little lives that have made them. Mr Hirst made me smile. And when I reflect on it; that's a little disturbing. Because his art is about the fragility of existence; about the beauty inside the ugliness. No, the beauty of the ugliness.