I'm part of the solar dust that lies on the fringes of London's art world. I have a little gig at a gallery each month which is why I feel I can lay claim to a little foothold, but really it's no greater than a few specks.

But my few specks have enough combined purchase to get me into one or two events, usually because I've been tipped off by a friend. Like yesterday.

The two of us sat in a British Museum auditorium listening to Grayson Perry, in his finery, a canary yellow embroidered coat with a serious pink blush lining, talk about his life as an artist and letting rip at the things he dislikes about the art world. Certainly sunk that old trope of the wounded, passionate artist stripped to the waist, furiously dripping paint on a canvas, in the small hours. That went straight to the bottom of the sea. No survivors reported.

He's quite a showman, but thank God, not in the queasy, toe curling manner of Jonathan Ross, or Clarkson. And in a strange way, nowhere near as self referencing as those two, even if he does dress like a apple cheeked five year old.