Horace Bogarty on the Great Art Conspiracy.

I never knew anybody who ever met the Lynch Pin but I heard plenty.
One time, during last knockings at the Colony Club, I heard somebody whisper that they knew someone who saw his vast shadow move slowly across the wall at a Saatchi opening. Maybe one or two operatives stepped out of line and and got a visit from one of his minders. Not enough blue, too professional, too flippant, too cool, too emotional - do like the Lynch Pin says and your family and friends can rest assured that they wont get hit one dark night by a Cherokee van.

"He's got it sown up," they said, "sitting in his swivel chair, orchestrating the changes from his underground complex somewhere in East London, stroking the impassive head of his white cat. A closed circuit TV camera is linked to every gallery and studio and plays on a bank of screens reflecting into his kidney shaped swimming pool. Artistic boys and girls in thongs and bikinis carry larks tongues wrapped in vine leaves and cool his brow with whitchazel".