The sphincters of the staff at London's hottest new art gallery, The Malevolent Easel, collectively tightened when art critic, Morgan Periwinkle arrived.
If his review was anything less than a sycophantic slobberfest, the gallery would be toast.
Morgan ummed and ahhed until one exhibit grabbed him. "This installation is a freakin' masterpiece!"
Gallery owner, Singeon Fotheringay, shuffled uneasily. "Um, that's cat vomit, a mangy moggie followed you in and barfed in that corner."
"It reminds me of Emin at her best," said Morgan. "Isn't that a contradiction?" "Button it. I'm the art critic, it's worth five grand of anybody's money."