Master Artiste Jamie Martin gives an insight into the world of lewd nude

For the past few weeks I have been trying to connect with my inner artist. I have always had a keen interest in art, but unfortunately I was not blessed with any technical skills or talent. This in itself is a crying shame, made worse by the fact that my family are all quite good, and my skills have already been surpassed by those of my sister (13).

I was determined to do something. A trip to Aldi later (ten canvases were bought, thanks Ma) and I was ready to start my new career. I stole my brother’s acrylics and decided that painting would be my art form. I ended up with three paintings that I am actually quite proud of, but it was what I did with the stinkers that prove one thing: I may not be talented at art, but I am truly an artist when it comes to finding ways of keeping myself amused for long periods of time.

Staring at seven or eight shit paintings, I wondered what could be done with them. My family were heartbreakingly honest about them. They couldn’t be hung up and they took up room. What to do? I had my idea while looking at the worst of the bunch (an attempt at an African war shield that just ended up looking like a vagina. Fuck you, Freud) and decided that it would be hilarious to force my art upon unsuspecting victims.

My older sister – a follower of aesthetics and design – has a lovely and recently remodelled house. I wrote on the back of the African gee, “Dear Louise, as you know, for the past few weeks I have been trying to paint. This is the result of my efforts. I am very proud of this painting and although it pains me to part with it, the first thing I thought of when it was finished was how nice it would look in your kitchen. The colour scheme matches it perfectly and I think it would look lovely above that red couch you got in Ikea! Your brother, Jamie.”  You know when you open a terrible Christmas present in front of someone and have to put on that cheesy smile and pretend to like it? Imagine having to do that for a year. The plan is, after a year or two, I will tell her that the painting that she had to hang on her wall to avoid hurting my feelings was actually a cruel joke.

There were also my other paintings to get rid of. I left one on the Dart, posted one (a completely blue painting of the Virgin Mary) to the Pope (yes, that’s right, the Pope) and I posted a purple tree to Mary McAleese.

I also sent a charming Spanish village scene that looked like it was done by an infant to Gerry Ryan with “Jamie Martin – 21 years old” written on the back. Seamus Heaney received a black and white chicken, and Bertie Ahern got some colourful balls: all addresses found through the joy that is Google. I think that I gave “Art Attacks” a whole new meaning.

Sorry, had to end the year on a pun. Keep the faith!