I go to the massive Dada and Surrealism show at the Hayward. I stare reverently at the urinal and the bicycle wheel, and then, after shuffling past nearly everything, I take exception to the general reverence as being un-Dada. I stare at an empty plinth fixedly for half an hour, all the while looking out of the corner of my eye to see if my dada-ness is being noticed by anyone. I walk back truculently through the entire show, against the flow of visitors, but since this is about the most predictable thing anyone could do, and because all the visitors are English, no one takes the slightest notice, and I burst forth into the Brutalist exterior, far more surreal than anything in the actual show, and wander into Waterloo Station, honour satisfied.