In a rare excursion beyond the hallway, the Director-General visited a major national museum. He returned shaken, scandalised, and, by his own account, "the only person there who understood anything."
The Grievances
Nigel's complaints were extensive and delivered at volume:
- The labels were too short. "Three sentences for a masterpiece. Three. I give four hundred words to a chair."
- The crowds were enjoying themselves. "Openly. In front of the art. With children." He found this "uncurated."
- The gift shop was excellent, which he resented bitterly, and toured twice, taking notes.
A Moment of Reflection
Standing before a genuinely revered painting, Nigel was, briefly, silent. Observers report a single tear, quickly reframed as "an allergy to legacy." He then leaned toward the canvas, squinted, and pronounced it "fine. Derivative of work I have not yet made, but fine."
The Verdict
Nigel left convinced that the great museums of the world, for all their centuries and treasures, lack the one thing the Institute possesses in abundance: him.
"They have the Rembrandts," he conceded on the steps. "But do they have a kebab elevated beyond accountability? Do they have vision? No. They have parking."
He has requested that we never speak of the tear.
The Newsroom, sworn to secrecy regarding the tear