Text by Lydia Eliza Trail I have not seen such frivolity since Saatchi Yates invented SLAWN. I thought this would be a tasteful exhibition, exploring the Toy as a bearer of that which is neither here nor there, revealing innermost childhood traumas and psychological scars through tastefully abject dissections. Instead, I seem to have entered the entrails of Joanna Lumley’s Surrey home. I did not attend Cambridge’s tri-partite art historical re-enactment survey and introduction to Renaissance ethics master's programme to spend my time alongside such preposterous, uncouth, slanderous crusades against my God-given role as a woman of cultivation. TOYS! TOYS! TOYS! appears to be a post-lapsarian vision of perverse authoritarianism and en masse, egregious paternalistic issues. A Baudrillardian celebration of falsity via vajazzled, phantasmagorical projections. The room was, for lack of better words, as if Madame Tussaud had liquidated her wax estate into a showroom of adult regression-tinged distaste after three-to-five pours of Wray and Nephews. Think (to quote a tertiarily gendered individual) “if Jeff Koons and Fat Fuck Labubu Trade (?) co-opted the apartment from 'Blue Velvet' and inserted a snaggle-toothed Made In Heaven installation funded by Italian porn-star-cum-politician Cicciolina.” I, an art critic of distinction, am a frequenter of galleries without alcohol licenses. Those sitting adjacent to some paroxysm of a “club” called Home Sweet Home and a neo-liberal “cocktail bar” heinously named “Fig.19”? Cheapening. If my recent chiding by a homosexual in a passive-aggressive email, stating that my writing should read “less Cixous,” indicates that I should start analyzing oversized fur sculptures resembling prolapses and carrying my laptop in a Neverfull, I will politely decline. My art historical erudition stretches well into the 1790s, after which, my desire to understand the Winnicottian underpinnings of Sergio Farias’s cavorting, Rose-Wylie-esque, surgically enhanced, abhorred paintings noticeably weakens. These artists seem to have adopted the formal borrowings of commodity fetishism and turned them into what I can only call monstrous semiotics. Ryker Paulson’s “Balenciaga Bondage Bear” purportedly symbolizes satanic pedophilia; Chloë Walker’s prostituting mutant’s breasts could send the creators of Womanhouse into paroxysmal spasm; Thomas Liu Le Lann’s cloddish oaf slumps in a philistine, Weinhousian tableaux; Rosie Gibbens’ The New Me (2022) reads like a nursery school sex-education video-cum-Schneeman-directed advertisement for preposterous products; and Josh Rabineau’s sordid torso asks of its viewer to gaze through its peep-hole nipples at abominably decorated domestic dioramas. Have any of these artists even read Melanie Klein? I am one “boundary-pushing” sculptural installation away from eating my Paris Review totebag in a self-flagellation ritual to Gombrich. Does the individual behind TOYS! TOYS! TOYS!, likely a slovenly toddler, take this carnivalesque outpour and distasteful populism for some kind of movement? Has Jeffrey Deitch won? A number of searing questions have plagued my mind since encountering this boorish display of gross curatorial incompetence: What is Labubu? Is one to have sex with Labubu? What would Freud make of the fantasy of impregnable Labubu, and what the fuck is a “Spielraum?”.