EGON’S PROPHECY

(dedicated to unknown perpetrators)

If my theory contradicts the facts, all the worse for the facts. (Hegel)

1.
A motley crew has gathered at At the Painters', a wine bar in Prague’s Malostanská district.
“In a few years’ time, the art scene is most likely going to look like this,” pronounces Egon Bondy to members of the Tvrdohlaví (Stubborn Ones) artist group and others attending the get together. “After the StB-orchestrated velvet revolution, there will be a short-lived period with room for a myriad of fantastic activities. Loads of galleries and clubs will crop up; there will be plenty of money for everything. That will last two, maybe three years. I doubt much longer. Then, the ruling political set will realize that it holds the power and that it can use it to its own advantage, and so it will begin to tighten the taps and dilute the oxygen. This manifests itself in skyrocketing rents and the successive liquidation of galleries and rock clubs. Stipend and grant selection commissions are set up to divvy up the money. The artists themselves will be appointed to them because the new big cheeses will have grasped that artists have always been whores and would even take their own disabled mothers down a notch or two for moolah. And so the selection commissioners will funnel funds to themselves, and of course to their friends and their friends’ friends. The green light will be given to inoffensive projects that do not rub the ruling set the wrong way…”
“I don’t believe that. It won’t happen,” says Ludvík Hlaváček, dismissively waving his hand through a ripple of smoke. StB officers, dressed as waiters, deliver a round of beverages and peanuts.
“It will. That will be the case with art, as well as with literature, theatre and film,” continues Bondy. “Ambitious slimeballs, who flexibly adapt to the new rules, to each new government and to the changing political trends, will be appointed to the commissions. The number of magazines will plummet. There will be increasing incidences of personal opinions and attitudes that exceed the mainstream taste being eliminated and censored. Independent art will be subsidized by the state; alternative clubs will have the most expensive entrance fees. Those who adapt will survive, those who don’t will pack it in. The conflict-free mediocrity will enjoy media success. The Plastic People will be the presidential band; they’ll play the Spanish Hall, the White House in Washington, and even the National Theatre. Their repertoire will be nostalgic, watered-down brew to the old-timers. They’ll be burnt out and won’t ever produce anything new again. Known and unknown heroes will seek accolades and honors; some will even exact them. Fake myths and false perceptions will be created. The preceding ideological lie will be displaced by the upcoming media lie. When you call someone an alternative artist, it will be just the same as if you called him a total dickhead,” says Bondy vividly describing the artistic future.
“No way it could end up that idiotically…” rebels Jiří David.
“It’s gonna be even worse. Art will start being displayed in banks, insurance companies and the headquarters of multinational companies; they’ll build up collections and buy a certain fraction of works dirt cheap. Then they’ll wipe it off their taxes. At the same time, there will be exhibitions in Parliament and the Senate and who knows where else. Budding artists will be in the hands of managers and go-betweens—in a word, pimps—who will systematically corrupt them, resulting in the artists starting to tow-the-line with the increasingly totalitarian regime. The innocuous and aesthetically cleansed crap will be praised by cowardly critics. Then, nobody will touch anything controversial, derisive or shocking with a ten-foot pole. There will be an upsurge of art for art, encrypted rebuses for ambitious experts and goods for loaded snobs. Young art school graduates will be preferred. They will become the ideal targets for brainwashing drills, as they will lack both historical memory and aptitude for critical thinking. Never-ending sagas about the monstrosities of communism will be pounded into their heads, but there won’t be anyone around to warn them of the growing bestiality of the other side of the coin. Nobody will have the courage to say that economic fascism is dangerously flourishing here, and with it a closely intertwined regime reminiscent of a shitty Latin American movie from the mid-sixties. Everyone will pretend that there’s nothing savage going on. An enclosed space with deadly, albeit blurrily defined, norms will be established. The bestial precept ‘something for something’ will hold sway. Artists will make clowns of themselves, operating half as rain traders and half as warm water merchants. Normal people will no longer set foot in galleries,” Bondy says, and then empties his glass of mineral water.
“Kind of like legalized pedophilia, to exaggerate a bit,” comments John Bok.
“Exactly!” agrees Bondy.
“And what about poetry, Bondy?” pipes up Magor Jirous, cheeks weathered by sharp pub winds.
“Poetry, my friends, will become an academically sketched outdoor museum of lyrical-Catholic blather and pre-calculated crap. Non-conflicting easy-going types will purr congenially as they collect prizes of all sorts. Poetry will yield to cosmetic modifications and lose its original vigor and power. It will gradually become the self-centered domain of Moravian nationalists. Poets will look like ordinary public servants and successful businessmen; in time they may even blabber on at company parties. The poetry branch will be devalued by calamitous overproduction. Key undergrounders will willingly move from the carbon paper of samizdat literature to textbooks,” says Bondy etching the future of poetry.
“Fucking hell…” Magor cringes in the corner.
“I disagree! Poets are key players. Poetry has always been and will always be the salt of this nation!” passionately protests Jiří Kuběna, who then lecherously eyes Petr Nikl.
“It never has been and it never will be. The salt of this nation has always been lies, slander, beer Schweiks and Mickey Mouse cottagers,” challenges Bondy.
“A poet who makes it into the media limelight should be just as established and well-equipped as a real estate agent or a stock broker. More than poetic talent he needs a dynamic aptitude for self-promotion. From a bare minimum he must mine the absolute maximum. That is closely related to Nietzche’s will to power,” he continues.
“Poet is priest,” Kuběna cites Allen Ginsberg. “His warming words shall warm that cold, dehumanized world, cheekily denying God’s presence,” he adds. He winks at Nikl lasciviously and orders him an egg liquor.
“The contemporary poet is rather a boring buffoon. And I am not convinced that the future poet will retreat from this idiotic role either—rather the opposite,” chuckles Bondy.
“Good kunst should entertain folks, not bombard them with crap,” explains Bolek Polívka, who then pours everyone a shot of plum brandy.
“That’s got a bite!” shudders Kuběna. Polívka pours another round.
“I can’t believe what I’m hearing … How will performance develop?” probes Petr Štembera. The poets put on scornful grimaces and turn their backs.
“That which was not snuffed out by the cops will masochistically liquidate itself. Provocative events will quickly lose their power and cease to outrage. There will be painfully embarrassing reproductions, and even more painfully embarrassing reproductions of the painfully embarrassing reproductions. They will even be established at provincial universities, where they will become lucrative tourist attractions and a line of business for a few dozen career-seeking academic celebrities. Performers will sit on academic councils and approval committees. In the end, it will develop into an entertaining thrill for the ‘golden kids’…” foreshadows Bondy.
“That’s about what I guessed,“ laughs Štembera. He pays for his tea and leaves.
“The Bohemian jerk did not even finish his slivovitz!” gapes Polívka, uncomprehending.

2.
“Czech art will continue to be original and authentic. Nothing will shake its sought-for singular position,” counters theorist Jindřich Chalupecký.
“It will be the silent witness of the internal ghetto,” weeps Adriena Šimotová.
“It will neither continue to be, nor will be. It will climb up the asses of all the cripples and sub-cripples west of Aš. Just as it obsequiously attempted to grasp for them before the revolution. The new age will launch rat races; the one who takes the biggest portion of fame, money and privileges first wins. The most sought-after commodities will be cynicism, non-trouble-making natures and the ability to adapt. Not overly generous prizes—more like modest pittances—will be bestowed and will become the authoritative criteria of artistic quality. How many times one has exhibited in New York, at the Venice Biennale, in London and elsewhere will be just as decisive. The Chalupecký Prize will become the most prestigious prize of all,” Bondy rejects Chalupecký and Šimotová’s assertions.
“That’s too pessimistic,” Chalupecký feebly defends his point.
“I’d be really surprised…” Petr Nikl shakes his head in disagreement. Hot with lust, Kuběna sexily circles his tongue around his right thumb. Hruška shows Jirous photos of the kitchen interior of his Ostrava apartment. His expression is rapturously wistful; a tear glimmers in the corner of his eye. “The kitchen is my everything: my asylum, my intellectual temple and mainly—my poem that I have never recited to the end. A meaningful poem in and of itself. The kitchen means to me what the ski jump is to the skier,” he explains.
“Write about it,” Magor encourages him, tipping back his vodka.
“The liberal market will be oversaturated with incomprehensible art and uneconomical intellectualism,” informs Václav Klaus in his homosexual accent.
“The whole besmeared, stage-managed charade has one catch—the winners will not be the artists or the businessmen or the lazy-ass journalists or even the political power-mongers. The winner will be somebody else entirely!” Bondy ’s eyes light up.
“Who?” pales David.
“The activists from the Radical Anti-Art Fraction. Subversive anti-regime anonyms. In protest against crafty ways, ethical whoredom and artistic prostitution, ultra-radical bands of guerilla-fighting ruffians will form to carry out raids on art openings and literary séances, where they will devalue and demolish the privileged and toothless swindlers’ impotent pasquinades and beat them and the sycophantic snobs to a pulp. The forays will be lightning quick and planned right down to the last detail. A week won’t pass without them storming in and demolishing some place. A day won’t pass without some prominent jerk-off getting snuffed out. Those will be the harbingers. In the second and third waves more will join in, with even better tricks and even greater force. The terrified critics and intellectual free-loaders will turn their coats inside out and write bullshit excuses about the need for fundamental changes.”
“I think that’s a sure bet!” anarchist Jakub Polák nods enthusiastically.
“Who the hell are these guys? Where did they come from?” grumbles Polívka.
“We wouldn’t miss that for anything. We’ll tether them to cars and drag them around Prague for an hour,” pronounces Muchacho, the doyen of the Karlín Outlaws.
“You’re speaking from my heart, you old fart. We’ll grind their pretty faces to a pulp,” adds Benzín, the ringleader of the Smíchov Bandidos.
“We’ll join in, too. We’ll smear those pansy-ass dimwits along the walls,” agrees Pitbull, kingpin of the Žižkov Hell’s Angels.
“That’s nonsense!” roar Mr. and Mrs. Ševčík.
“Entartete Kunst!” Daniel Landa raises his right arm forward abruptly.
“Aye,” snuffles Klaus.
“The corrupt artists will be afraid to exhibit. All of their exhibitionistic masturbations will take place with the hearty assistance of the police,” finishes Bondy.
“I pretty much believe it…” Magor Jirous frowns and launches into a protest striptease. His figure is toned by daily weightlifting in beer gyms.
“What about us Gypsies?” queries Ondřej Giňa, flexing his muscles.
“You’ll become Roma,” Bok pacifies him.
“…by the skin of your teeth, if at all,” growls Landa.
“You’re such a gloomy pseudo-princess Libuše!” Hruška slags off Bondy.
“We’ll see…” fidgets Bondy.

3.
The waiters clear the empty glasses and serve full ones.
“Renowned book publishers will orient themselves towards profitable products and the contented quality will go by the wayside. Literature will gradually become less and less challenging, half-tabloid clinkers and crap. The prestigious literary journals will start operating as advertising catalogues, artistic ones, too. Impudence, mockery, provocation and sharp confrontational style will disappear. Censorship and self-censorship will abound and get decisively stronger. Dissatisfying and alarming works will go to hell,” says Bondy, vigorously driving off an intrusive fly.
“The long and anxiously awaited poetry collections of artful and submissive authors will be sold out like lightning. The market’s invisible hand will reliably separate the grain from the weed. Academically green poets are feared lyrical predators. Melodious cicadas in the primitive roar of barbarian riff-raff. The quality of artistic work will be determined by fellowship to the haughty male caste. You are blind left-wingers, and you are pointlessly spooking!” Hruška challenges zealously.
“You must be constipated, or maybe you can’t sleep…” reacts Bondy.
“Opportunity must be caught by the balls and not let go,” Hruška gabbles away in a whisper.
“Bullshit. All the official chances will be lost, or complaisantly bought through ugly compromises,” Bondy growls angrily.
“Delectable Wallachian faun…” Kuběna drools passionately in the direction of apathetic Nikl. His hands mold an imaginary shape.
“Yeah, and so what...?” winks Magor Jirous.
“A few disobedient enthusiasts will start publishing samizdat literature again,” Bondy explains and flips a half-full ashtray over, entrapping the fly.
“Quit making a mess here or I’ll throw you out on your asses!”
The other participants sit in silence, delving into their own thoughts.
“Aye,” snuffles Klaus, half-asleep.
“Samizdat literature…” Bondy repeats more for himself.
“That’s a brilliant solution!” exults Bok.
“It is and it isn’t. While the spoiled readers ignore them, the pissed-off establishment will carry out a nasty smear campaign against them—via literary critics and reviewing anal-extractors. Because they will realize that that is how a truly independent opinion scene originates, and that will be unacceptable to them. They will go after the samizdat authors from all angles, and will try to check-mate them out of the game,” Bondy goes into detail.

“Those sons of bitches won’t get away with it,” glowers Jirous.
“Not a chance,” adds Bok.
“That’s the question … A schizophrenic situation will ensue—samizdat publications will circulate in pubs and cafes and be read by the new ruling set of the affronted and subjugated. Concurrently, they will start training special police forces, who will look like alternative types, and those bastards will liquidate the samizdat publications. So there will gradually less and less of them and problems with their smooth distribution,” says Bondy.
“All problems can be resolved,” Jirous knocks a vodka back.
“Not all,” Bondy quietly argues.
“How so?” gapes Bok, bewildered.
“Easily. We can logically assume that the big cheeses in parliament will pass a rapidly drafted law on unauthorized printed matter, and publishing and spreading samizdat literature will be a criminal offense. The legislative jerk-offs will naturally set a minimum prison sentence for convictions, so that every author will think thrice. Game over. The exhausted romantics and dried-up idealists will be sunk for good,” Bondy draws a devil on the wall.
“It will be like under the totalitarian regime,” scowls Bok.
“Why say ‘like’?” Bondy throws his arms up in the air.

4.
“You’ve got a phone call in the boss’s office,” the head waiter informs Bondy.
Bondy gets up and heads to the office. He knocks on the door. “There,” the manager of the wine cellar points to the phone, not lifting his eyes from the pile of red tape on his desk.
“Fisher,” Bondy introduces himself into the receiver.
“Kryl Here. I want to speak to Mr. Bondy,” whispers a distant voice.
“That’s me,” elaborates Bondy.
“A-ha, sorry... I’ll tell you a few fixed ideas, and I’d like you to convey them to the people you trust. And feel free to tell anyone you want,” says the distant voice.
“Fine. Tell me, I’m listening,” Bondy prompts him.
“Tell them that through my inner sense of sight I see this: democracy blooms, though with a cosmetic defect and those who have been thieving for years will continue to steal twice as much,” says Kryl’s distant voice.
“I’ll tell them. You can count on it,” Bondy assures him. The conversation is attacked by fuzzy music.
“And tell them too that King Václav will be in, hand in hand with the profiteering scum. And that we’ll meet at the trough under the roof of one party,” continues Kryl’s distant voice.
“I’ll tell them that, too,” promises Bondy.
The manager looks at his watch impatiently.
“And also tell them that democracy will mature into stomach ulcers. Without integrity, without law and above all without scruples. It may be a personal error, it may be an optical illusion, but it will have a tummy instead of a heart and a muzzle instead of a soul,” continues Kryl’s distant voice.
“I’ll tell them. Don’t worry,“ Bondy promises again.
“Okay then. Take care of yourself. See you soon, I think,” Kryl finishes.
“I hope so. Take care, too,” says Bondy, and hangs up.
“Thank you,” Bondy says to the manager.
The manager replies with silence.

5.
“Who was it?” Bok inquires.
“An emigrant who lives on the other side of the curtain. I’ll tell you what he said later,” says Bondy and continues the delicate theme: “Now, where were we? Oh yeah… The devastation of snobby art openings will climax. The Establishment will of course happily rush up to help the justly attacked artists and will organize witch-hunts against the radicals, getting the media involved, closely linked with the administratively-excessive power. Their arguments will be just as half-witted as the arguments of the knocked-out artists. The radicals’ forays will be lightning-quick and planned down to the last little detail. They will wear camouflage and nobody will know their names. When they come to see that it’s not helping much, they’ll blast galleries and literary cafes to smithereens. The so-called alternative ones will be the first to go,” Bondy waves his hands elatedly.
“Hmm…” Nikl’s childish face betrays a terrified look.
“Aye,” snuffles an awakened Klaus.
“It will end with the National Gallery up in flames. The Trade Fair Palace will burn again. This time it will definitively fall into its own ashes,” Bondy’s eyes twinkle.
“I won’t put it out,” chuckles Bandido Benzín.
“I’ll light up a joint on it,” chimes in Pitbull.
“We’ll stoke the flames with those losers’ poetic puke,“ plans Muchacho.
“Art and artists deserve better treatment,” objects Chalupecký.
“Not under the said circumstances,” says Bondy.
“But that will be limiting personal freedom!” Petr Nedoma becomes alarmed.
“No way,” argues Bondy. “After all, the artists themselves will have willingly limited their own freedom long before that, so there won’t be anything to limit. They will have to decide what exactly it is that they want. They will either paint and sculpt on commission from the banks, retail chains and rich collectors, and poach advertising gigs on the side, or they’ll say fuck all that fluffy shit and go underground and become truly free and independent, but they’re going to be down out,” adds Bondy.
“I don’t know…” says Nedoma with a look of disgust.
“Consumers, voters and manipulated human resources will no longer need souls; financial instinct will suffice instinct,” argues Klaus prophetically.
“What about your past and your wife’s past?” Petr Cibulka forces open terra incognita’s door.
“For the past five years I’ve felt like a hunted animal. In that respect, our activist colleague, Mr. Bok, and I are fatally close,“ replies Klaus.
Bok faints, Jirous pours a mineral water on him and shakes him.
“What’s the story with your wife?” pesters Cibulka.
“In the spring of 2003, she had a new light suit made for herself and an elegant hat in the same color to go with it, with a shiny, cream-colored brim. It becomes her,” gushes Klaus.
“But right now it is the summer of 1989. What was she doing ten years ago and who are her parents? There are rumors galore, so go ahead and set the record straight,” rages Cibulka.
“Never, and I mean never, has she wanted to be the first lady. But since she became that on merit, she dutifully looks after the park at the chateau in Lány and waters the flowers there daily. She initiated the founding of an elite society, the Top Czech Ladies. She came to realize that an expensive mink coat is absolutely necessary for oral fund-raising activities. Merry extravagance predestines her to the role as a duly educated expert on the global climate issue,” snuffles Klaus.
“The year is 1989!” roars Cibulka, rising menacingly.
“She behaves well towards the poor, and dislikes, really truly dislikes, sitting on several lucrative supervisory boards. But it is nevertheless necessary to deepen awareness of attention-attracting kindness, as Mr. Magor so aptly writes,” continues Klaus.
Jirous faints, Bok pours mineral water on him and shakes him.
“The poor will be taken from and the rich given to,” Saša Vondra hisses arrogantly.
“They’ll stone you to death for treason. I’ve seen it in a dream,” John Bok clenches his fist.
“After catastrophic global fuck-ups will come a time where the economists will be made outlaws, and the most prominent ones will end up in concentration camps on the South Pole,” frowns Polák.
“I’ve seen that in a dream too,” Bok nods in agreement.

6.
“Let’s return to the theme of art,” David resuscitates the original theme.
“ja,” snuffles Klaus.
“Art hasn’t been the domain of the poor and cursed for a long time now! It has nothing to do with socially disqualified riff-raff!” Milan Knížák becomes enflamed.
“The two of us are going to get along just fine,” interjects Klaus.
“We will not let art be undermined!” Knížák booms pugnaciously.
“The great artist of the future shall go underground,” Magor cites Marcel Duchamp.
“That is culpably unhygienic. He would be totally insane if he did!” Knížák replies sharply.
“We courageous ones do not need the future,” demurs Jiří Dědeček.
“And nobody is forcing it on you. Avant-garde art scorns the future,” Knížák calms him down.
“The past future present is reined in by the holy whip. No future, as we cyberpunks down at the interior ministry building say,“ Major Zeman backs him up.
“Serious culture and non-offensive art will always be a good job,” Jan Burian pats his belly genially.
“It is necessary to live in abundance and peace with the competition,“ stresses Karel Gott, who then writes a dedication to Václav Havel in his book Letters to Volga, released by the publishing house Kolyma Gulag Books.
“Gott mit uns!” shouts Landa as he raises his arm in the Nazi salute.
“He who wants to live wild with sheep must howl with them too,” Dědeček turns his coat inside out and cites an old proverb, blessed with miraculous detergent cleaning powers.
“We snipers from Melodie will be democracy’s watchdogs,” reassures Jan Rejžek.
“The leaders of the Jazz Section will stop merging with the StB and will come over to the moral victors’ side,” Karel Srp declares ceremoniously.
“They’ve always belonged there…” Joska Skalník puffs on his pipe.
“Erudite blondes will head into a virtual battle to fight for the glory that young Czech-global art so deserves!” Lenka Lindaurová calls out bravely.
“Inequality! Disunity! Individualism! Elitist privileged brethren! The ODS will be the elite party of the anti-ecologists! It will inspire the adventurous unveiling of the varied layers of meaning underlying life-enhancing commercialism!” Klaus exclaims fanatically.
“I don’t see anything negative about that. It will be the post-modern fulfillment of collectively individualized authentic identity,” Havel politely agrees.
“That is fair language! The red banking lobby will install a blue, not green reality. I’ve got to retract my application to the Communist Party with lightning speed. And one curious trifle really, I mean really, troubles me—when our neighbor calls to her German shepherd, Reka, ‘here!’, even I submissively trot over,“ Klaus unbuttons a button on his shirt. He reaches into his jacket pocket and pours ash on his head.
"You naughty little boy!" the head waiter reacts prudently.
"What about the informants?" asks Cibulka.
"They’ll make fun of the dissidents," laughs Jarek Nohavica.
"It’s on the house…" another waiter sets a Georgian cognac in front of him.
"We students will take to the streets," imparts Major Ludvík Zifčák, jangling a set of keys.
"Actors will be the protagonists of social changes," Jiřina Bohdalová unerringly predicts, rattling a necklace of black Tahitian pearls.
"The time has come! Resilient literary critics and acrobatic journalists will join in," Vladimír Novotný asserts himself resolutely and fixes a weather vane on his bald patch. "Am I right, Zdena?" he turns to Rudé Právo reporter Pavelka.
"You are," Pavelka nods in agreement, relishing the thought.
"You are a chameleon who freeloads in every regime. When the Zulus storm in on rhinoceroses, you’ll not only climb up right into their asses but into the rhinoceroses’ asses as well," Bondy erupts at Novotný.
"Life is change…" squirms Vladimír Hyenovič.
"Ja," snuffles Klaus.
"The next elite will be subjected to stricter criteria. Only a handful of us have gotten by without moral blots: me, the boys from Olympik, Michal Prokop, Jarda Hutka and five, six others. Not counting the dead," Rejžek vets perfunctorily. Kuběna takes a seat next to an alarmed Nikl.
"It will quietly fade away into a tie, as always…" Cibulka grinds his teeth.
"If only we had your problems," babble the Rafani members, tossing pacifiers into the others’ drinks.
"We’ll change your diapers and nurse you," the Válová sisters offer.
"Shit stinks everywhere," observes Jan Saudek.
"But how do we get out of this?" scowls John Bok.
"Ja," snuffles Klaus.
"In time, a bad mood will settle over everyone. It will surface that celebrated art is totally recycled and back-pedals. Art historians and curators will go with their affected and overcomplicated crap up the ass and there will be a tendency to sew their mouths shut with packing thread. Some galleries will change into lively discussion forums from which the shits who deboned art by their egocentrism, greed and stupidity will be barred. The situation takes a turn for the better. Finally, they’ll start thinking about which role art plays in society and if it has the right to deem itself developmental avant-garde," concludes Bondy, outstretching his arms.
"And in your opinion it does?" asks David.
"No,"Bondy scratches his chin.
"Let us pray!" prompts Priest Václav Malý.
"I’m going for a piss," Bondy gets up.

7.
"Ja," snuffles Klaus.




All the names mentioned in the text are real people, whose existence is historically verifiable. It is not possible to confuse these people with non-existing heroes.

Jiří Kuběna – famous gay poet and uniter of poets.
Václav Klaus – economist, later populist President of the Czech Republic, against the environment and the EU, allegedly also gay.
Rek, Kluk – alleged pseudonym of future President Václav Klaus in connection with the StB (the Czech secret police under communism).
Karel Kryl – famous anti-regime, cursed singer, who surprisingly disappeared after the anti-regime revolution.
Bolek Polívka – convivial drunken actor, ruler of the Minor Drunk tribe in Moravia.
Petr Nikl – famous artist and performer, has the face and behaviour of a child with an adult presense.
Zdeno Pavelka – former Red lawyer, now a society lawyer.
Adriena Šimotová – famous artist, figurative existentialist.
Krel Gott – the most famous Czech-German singer of cantilena and post-late Czech neoimpressionism.
Jarek Nohavica – famous folk singer who an allegedly more honest folk singer dubbed the “informer from Těšín”, in other words a collaborator with the StB.
Válova sisters – twins Jitka and Květa, famous painters.
Jan Saudek – a popular photographer of human oddities, a particular favourite with the French.
Rafani – uniformed academic performers, originally mistaken for a dark national occult lodge.
Karel Srp – allegedly informed on Joska Skalník, chairman of the important opposition cultural cell the Jazz Section, during the final years of the socialist Czech state.
Joska Skalník – allegedly informed on Karl Srp, graphic artist of the Jazz Section, and for a brief time a famous artist at the beginning of the second Czech capitalist state.
Petr Hruška – conservative poet whose sole criterion is instant success.
John Bok – former dissident, poet, all-round activist, and head of the secret pressure group of the righteous called Šalamoun.
Jiří David – living Czech legend of visual art, graphomaniac and media star.
Ivan Magor Jirous – icon of the Czech underground, Catholic poet and Zen drunkard who’s always taking his clothes off.
Daniel Landa – former skinhead, singer of the band Orlik, now a celebrity, car racer and national mystic.
Petr Štembera – former performer, famous for growing plants on his body, karate and poster expert.
Jindřich Chalupecký – allegedly very important art historian, misinterpreter of Duchamp, essayist and occasional mystifier.
Jakub Polák – retired anarchist.
Egon Bondy – left-wing Zen philosopher, father of the Czech underground, prose writer, allegedly also an StB collaborator and poet, burned to death in bed.
Ondřej Giňa – television reporter, now just a Romany.
Mr and Mrs Ševčík – Promoters of moderately progressive art within the bounds of the law.
Lenka Lindaurová – journalist with a deadly hatred towards the late minister for culture.
Petr Cibulka – Brno dissident and lifelong boor who released lists of StB agents, thus polarising Czech society into two camps - the wicked and the innocent.
Petr Nedoma – director.
Ludvík Hlaváček – director.
Milan Knížák – general director, living horror of Czech visual art.
Jiří Dědeček – president.
Václav Havel – dramatic ex-president, heterosexual.
Jan Burian – freeloader, parasite and convivial fellow.
Jan Rejžek – freeloader, parasite and grumbler.
major Zeman – a friend of Vladimír Novotny.
Vladimír Novotný – the most disgusting monster you could imagine, literary critic and reviewer.
Vladimír Hyenovič – Vladimír Novotný.
Jiřina Bohdalová – sex symbol of the Czech countryside of the 60s and 70s.
Václav Malý – priest-dissident, Catholic tobacconist.
Saša Vondra - politician whose head is adjusted TV screen 3:4 (PAL).
Ludvik Zifčák - fake student and prophet who actually rose from the dead.

01.02.2008