Here comes Waldemar Januszczak, thundering towards us in his rumpled leisure suit as he gestures frantically at the explicit sculptures between which he finds himself rudely sandwiched.
“I mean,” he gasps, “look at that.” We look at that. It is a stone carving depicting a man and three women engaged in a sexual act that one could confidently describe as “confusing”. The art critic is impressed. “Imagine twisting yourself into that position,” he murmurs, as the camera takes in the skewwhiff limbs, oscillating breasts and, in the middle of it all, a scrotum stretched like so much ninth-century bubblegum. “You should get an Olympic medal for doing that.” As, indeed, should Januszczak, whose ability to survey said vision without a) fainting or b) bursting into tears is an achievement in itself.
