"We're all artists of a sort," says the man, "or at least we all vibrate with the art instinct, a certain "ornamental capacity.""

Sure we do, but that doesn't mean what we produce exceeds what we put in. An artfully placed piece of dung, contemplatively arranged by a chimp, does not soar in significance through being transported to the South Bank. Nor do the self-promoting words of praise from an arts elite - "authentic", "honest", "inciteful", "marvellously primitive" "a turning point in art history" and "investable" make it less of a pile of poo. Most of us are unexceptional craftsmen with no exceptional insights to impart yet the way things have gone cag handed airheads sometimes get discovered and lauded. My son emailed some images of complete splodges to Tate Modern with a pretentious explanation of his artistic vision to see what would happen and they came back enthusiastically asking him to send more.

Naming the prize after my absolute hero, JMW Turner, is grotesque. A supreme craftsman, with such skill he could actually paint light, being dragged into a circus of none of the talents, it ain 't right. Mumble grumble.