Pretentious isn’t strong enough a word for this year’s turner prize exhibition.

I came in with an open mind – I’m pretty art illiterate, I’ve not seen much ‘conventional’ art, let alone modern art – and had a look at the exhibits, facilitated by a friendly tour guide, who gushed about the prestige associated with winning the prize.

The first left me baffled. A sparse, stark, white room, dotted with chairs. Upon closer inspection, and instruction by our tour guide, the chairs were revealed to be vintage 1920’s Bauhaus chairs, draped with designer jackets. Each jacket had been stitched in place, and we were told not to touch anything. Strange, pallid sculptures festooned the walls. Apparently they were supposed to resemble those lost dog posters you used to get with tickets you could pull off. Fair enough. Cool, cool.

If I’m honest, the tour guide’s justification/description/explanation/excuse – delete as your own private cynicism dictates – didn’t make much sense to me. When you put a jacket over a chair, you claim it. Women generally don’t claim as many things as men. Therefore this. Art innit?

I don’t wish to appear wilfully ignorant, cynical or just a bad sport. But. I gave it a bash and it really just wasn’t for me.

I steeled myself for the next exhibit, feeling every inch an uncultured swine.

Doug. A 20-or-so-minute opera by Janice Kerbel about a guy called Doug, who’s just really, really unlucky. It’s based on the old joke: ‘What do you call a guy with a shovel for a head? Doug.’ Over the course of the… ordeal – ordeal we’ll call it – Doug:

Is mauled by a bear, flattened by a giant object from the sky, choked, slips and falls, is hit by lightning and drowns. Or so I’m led to believe…

I assumed in my plebiscite ignorance that this was because the opera was in another language (is opera always in another language?) but apparently the whole thing was in English. I understood maybe 3% of what was said. The lyrics to the opera were on the wall to read before and after. Of course it’s all about the music, but it would’ve been nice to know what was going on.

I won’t pretend – a good bit of it was pretty enjoyable. The vocal ranges of the black-clad, serious looking singers were extraordinary. I’ve never watched opera live, only ever heard it on film soundtracks, etc. So it was really interesting to hear up close.

Beforehand, the guide had informed us that Doug was ‘hilarious, so so funny.’ And it was. I think. But nobody knew where to laugh.

“A tortoise fell on his HEAD.”

The Bass (I’ve googled it) singer intoned sonorously, to a sporadic burst of laughter. But it was uncomfortable. Were we meant to laugh at that bit? I spent the entire thing feeling wholly awkward. I didn’t enjoy the whole thing in general, but I wanted to treat the singers with respect. So I stifled laughter – which I’m not sure was supposed to be present anyway – and put on my gravest, arty face. And I just got through it, teeth gritted, black imaginary polo neck donned.

Next was The Military Industrial Complex. I wasn’t really sure what I was looking at. A white room with a hub of screens in the middle, showing interviews with apparent alien abductees. Bonnie Camplin – the artist – believes in ESP, and she doesn’t care if you do or not. The room is ringed by some sort of stark white worktop, littered with hundreds of books which purportedly back up what the true believers in the middle of the room are saying. I didn’t really get it. The books – many of which were now-discredited pseudoscience tomes, centuries old – were eclectically, almost randomly chosen, and accompanied by amateurish Wikipedia printouts. It felt like a last ditch attempt to get a passing grade by a poor student who thinks they’re clever. Wasn’t for me; I’m not sure who it was for.

The final piece was by a collective called Assemble. This one is tipped to be a winner – considering it’s the only one that left a lasting impression on me, that’s good news.

The rest of the pieces smacked of pretentiousness, indulgence and pomposity.

“Look at my art. It is important.”

They all seemed to say. Which, in their own private world, is alright I suppose? But Glasgow is home to shocking poverty and inequality, especially just down the road from the Tramway where the works were exhibited. To take the time to craft such self-important tosh displays a wilful ignorance and disconnect with reality that sits uncomfortably with me.

Granby Workshop is a breath of fresh air in this exclusive world. Assemble’s space was packed tightly with beautiful, creative pottery works. Tiles, pictures and sculptures – all available to buy online. It’s all crammed into a homely little makeshift living space which has genuine charm. All the works are reclaimed from an abandoned, dilapidated building project for new council housing in Liverpool. The piece isn’t actually located in this room, the room just gives a flavour of it. The artists – or more accurately builders – have been inundated with requests they haven’t the capacity to fill, after their work was displayed. It feels like the closest thing to real art in the building, and was a cheering way to end the tour. It’s good to have something to look at and go:

“Yes, this is real art and it’s nice.”

Sometimes that’s all you need. Rather than some vague statement made with chairs, a cringe-worthy, unintelligible opera or a bad dissertation on steroids. I might stick to old fashioned art from now on.

[The views expressed by the author come from an ignorant place and should be either disregarded or taken with a pinch of salt]