Art? You just have to be joking.

I am not an art expert but I know what I like.

And I find it tedious and pretentious when so-called experts go into raptures over conceptual pieces no one in their right mind would consider art unless they suffered from the Emperor's New Clothes Syndrome.

Remember the fairy story?

Rebecca Warren's entry for this year's Turner Prize, for instance, is rubbish.

No, really, it's rubbish.

She has filled five display cabinets with bits of fluff, dust, hair, plastic, twigs, woollen pom-poms and a discarded cherry stone.

"I'm actually interested in what a bit of fluff and a bit of twig put in a particular order can mean," says Rebecca. "For somebody, it could mean one thing, and for somebody else, it could mean something else."

And she can't say fairer than that. Especially when she stands to win pounds 20,000.

Tate Curator Lizzie Carey-Thomas said, "Despite the fact it is rubbish, there is a mini-drama going on."

Or is she talking about EastEnders?

Have you ever heard such a load of old rubbish in your life?

Then along comes Gavin Turk (he's British) whose latest work, being displayed at the Fine Art Society Gallery in London, looks like er, um, well, not to beat about the bush, a urinal.

"It travels on levels of cynicism and irony and arrives in a holy place," he said.

Is he taking the Michael? Or something else?