“Don’t worry, that’s not piss on the carpet. It’s an exploded Diptyque candle!”

You know the saying: “treat ‘em mean, keep ‘em keen”… not a dating mantra, babes – a Thirsty Thurs philosophy. We’ve kept you parched for a reason: boiiiii it’s edging season… It’s been a whole month since we last painted the town a chaotic shade of deep crimson, and by Jove, hasn’t life happened. Since then, we’ve launched The Radar show, dropped some spicy new features, watched British Summer Time arrive and quietly betray us, and yes – obviously ovulated. But the drought is over. We’re back, ready to put the art world to rights. And oof almighty do we have a juicy one for you. 

It’s June, the sun’s out (sort of), the galleries are flinging open their doors, and that means one thing and one thing only: the Thursday before LGW, baby. “What’s LGW?” We hear the transatlantic crowd cry. As artist Gray Wielebinski (legend) once asked on his Insta, “Guys, I’m American. What’s LGW? Where’s the Gatwick airport rave!?” Oh Gray. If only. No, LGW = London Gallery Weekend, where the city’s galleries (well, those who signed up and paid the fee) all club together, for a city-wide art bonanza. Less Duty Free, more “where are the dirty martini’s!!?!”. Let the games begin. “Don’t worry, that’s not piss on the carpet. It’s an exploded Diptyque candle!” Dora overhears Billy reassuring The Big Barsh aka Sophie Barshal (The Toe Rag matriarch and current Plaster Store shopkeeper), as she descends the stairs to collect Billy for the chaos ahead.

We walked fast and furiously through Soho, pit stopping at The Fragrance Shop to douse over our day-long office aromas. Smelling as sweet as a hipster-tahini doughnut, we pranced to our first destination: Gagosian on Davies Street – Dora’s old stomping ground, back when she was just another intern fetching flat whites for gallery directors with God complexes. Outside, the pavement was already bubbling with collectors, necks craned for a glimpse of champagne flutes and capital-C culture. Inside, Kathleen Ryan’s ‘Roman Meal’ was in full swing –  a gluttonous, glittering bacchanal of jewel-encrusted sculptures. Think: Essex vajazzle salon meets mouldy toast fished from the back of your uni sofa during a final-year clear out. Camp, cursed, consumed. Delicious! After a sweep around the room and a few peculiar looks from ex-colleagues from Dora’s intern era, we decided to head onwards round the corner.

As the alcohol began to seep deep into our veins, we perused the long list of Mayfair Thursday openings on Seb’s Art List and one caught our eye: HOFA – excuse me! What did you call me!? “Shall we try something new?” and within five minutes we were there. ‘The House of Fine Art’. You know shit’s getting real when a gallery fences off the smoking area with VIP velvet ropes. Unaware that the ‘private view’ was in fact for once, actually private, the security guard-cum-door- girlie was kind enough to make an exception, after telling us that “they only serve champagne inside, though.” AS IF that would be a problem. He promised to let us in if we finished our beers round the corner. Whilst we nursed the backwash of our Grimm gallery Peronis, out of the corner of our eye we noticed the HOFA gallery director instruct the security guard to not allow any riff-raff in… we were met with snobbish smiles and turned up noses. The door babe reluctantly told us we couldn’t come in, he was serving class solidarity. I guess this one’s not for us… we were left to peer in through the window. From what we could see, the work was as if someone’s nan’s Pinterest craft board came to life and met a trypophobia fetish. Perhaps it’s time we stop inflating inconceivably bad art with RSVP lists and velvet ropes. Art for everyone! Not just the elite! “I’m really in the mood to drag,” said Billy, bitchily – and he wasn’t talking about RuPaul.

We stomped off to Kearsey & Gold. “Wow, it actually sounds quite busy,” Billy said as we turned the corner, before realising it was just a gaggle of after work drink huns posted outside a pub. Kearsey & Gold was a tad more tasteful. We liked these pieces by insert name, but we liked these women’s shoes more. It was giving “‘we’re not in Kansas anymore!”’ The woman, lapping up the attention as we snapped some pics, chimed “it’s fun going to openings, but you know what’s better? Seeing all the young people’s outfits!” We agree!

We arrived at Pippy Houldsworth and piled into the single-capacity Parisian-style lift. Dora, Billy and an older gentleman.Cock to cock, tit to tit. Like three peas in a pod! As we frantically arrived at each floor, not knowing which was the gallery, we noticed the gentleman was wearing a rainbow condom tie. “What do you do?” Dora asked. “I’m in that bloody art business.” The man announced. “I run Mayor Gallery. I’m James Mayor,” equal parts weary and winking. After a second that felt like a lifetime, Dora asked James if we could all take a selfie, to which he happily obliged. We parted ways and watched him stroll into the gallery over to none other than Michael Craig-Martin. A quick Google and we deduced that our new best pal previously showed the likes of Andy Warhol, Barbara Hepworth and Henry Moore. Now that’s what I call a roster!

All in all, the Mayfair circuit left a lot to be desired. But HA! We tricked you. That was foreplay. We were just edging for Katie Shannon’s solo show, ‘DEVOCORPOSTO’, at Neven Gallery. As we ascended the Central Line steps and arrived on the mean streets of Bethnal Green, we never thought we’d be so grateful to be in East London. The show featured some exquisitely executed colour pencil drawings, a work made of five shirts and ties and a metal gear that read ‘Hardcore till I die’. There was something deeply unhinged in the restraint of it all. The tenderness, the violence, the sleeves. Mayfair could never.

We finished the night at Nicoletti Contemporary, and followed them to afters at the Royal Oak. At this point, the night began its slow, glittering descent into chaos. Blisters were forming, wine was replacing dinner, and the gallery lights started to feel suspiciously like stage lights. We were no longer just spectators – we were part of the performance. And darling, the show must go on.