Will I be having lunch with Brian Sewell or will he be having me for lunch instead? It's a necessary question. At 82 years old, the eminent art critic is famed for his waspish asides and biting tongue. His acerbic reviews of gallery shows have been known to reduce curators to tears and his distaste for the contemporary art world is well-known. His weekly reviews in the Evening Standard have made him the master of the vituperative barb. In the past, Sewell's targets have included the street artist Banksy ("should have been put down at birth"), Tony Blair ("a man of extraordinary affectation") and female artists in general ("there has never been a first-rank woman artist").
So I'm nervous waiting for him to arrive at Bibendum Oyster Bar in South Kensington. Our table has been booked for midday. The clock ticks on to quarter past, then half past. I wait. I read my notes. I eat an entire plate of parmesan biscuits. After an hour, I begin to realise I have been stood up. Confirmation eventually comes via a publicist over email (Sewell doesn't own a mobile phone). He's having to file last-minute copy and can't make it.
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