Bad luck, Mr Sondheim: you've won an award Worse still, he describes lifetime achievement awards "as the most depressing" of them all, just "one more nail in the coffin." The scene seemed set for a frosty luncheon at the Menier Chocolate Factory, but in fact Sondheim was in good spirits and in an admirably brief but unexpectedly warm acceptance speech he said he regarded the British critics with more affection than their American counterparts because he received his first good notices here. The most terrifying part of the lunch for me was being dragged into the limelight. Maria Friedman, a performer I revere, had kindly agreed to perform several of Sondheim's songs at the ceremony and to my astonishment I found her dragging me on to a makeshift stage, firmly sitting me down on a chair and turning me into the butt of her rendition of The Worst Pies in London from Sweeney Todd. In the course of the number she held a knife to my throat (how many have wanted to do that, I wonder?), covered my best suit with flour, and affected to detect something stirring beneath my trousers when she sat on my lap, jumping up and looking at me with an expression of disgust mingled with contempt. It was fantastic to see this great musical actress up close and personal - but I feel a lot safer sitting in the stalls with a notebook to cower behind. The Morecambe and Wise of contemporary art The amazing thing about Gilbert & George is that despite being in artistic partnership for 45 years and constantly courting publicity and controversy, they remain an enigma. Are they great British artists or a pair of charlatans on the make? Were they really admirers of Margaret Thatcher, or was saying they were simply another way of grabbing a headline or two, like those notorious works which featured their own bodily fluids? Are they really lovers or just a highly successful business partnership? No one seems to know, which in these days of self-revelation and tabloid media exposure strikes me as remarkable. In appearing to reveal all, they have somehow cleverly managed to reveal almost nothing. Indeed, in every interview and profile I have read about them over the years, they come over as a highly polished comic double-act rather than people speaking from their hearts. The matching tailored suits might just as well be the motley of a pair of old jesters or the DJs and ruffled shirts of professional comedians in the 1970s. Gilbert & George are the Morecambe and Wise of modern art - with one major difference. They are nothing like as lovable. Their latest show, London Pictures, consists of huge poster-like works, 72 of which are being exhibited in the three White Cube Galleries in London. They are based on nearly 4,000 newspaper billboards the pair stole over several years, and each piece features several lurid tabloid headlines, incorporating the same key word, among them "paedo," "kill," "brawl," "gay," "death," "crack," "baby," "schoolgirl" and "sex." In the background are architectural details of London and, of course, Gilbert & George themselves, looming like watchful ghosts. The exhibition certainly captures, however crudely, the violence and unease of modern city life. "They tell an amazing story... they are the street cries of London," declares Gilbert in the catalogue. "And they are also the doorway into this amazing world - of misery, unhappiness and shame," adds George. The pictures, with a palette restricted to black, white, red and flesh-tones, are forceful and bold, but to describe them as Dickensian, as Gilbert & George do, merely highlights what is missing from their work - compassion and detailed human insight. After half an hour spent looking at these works, and absorbing the debased and banal language of the headlines, one's overpowering feelings are a mixture of boredom and depression. Great art, surely, should aim higher than that. Heavens in harmony with sublime playing As a weary prostitute was once heard to remark at the end of a long shift, "It's not the work, dear, it's the stairs." And I know just how she felt. It is getting to and from the theatre night after night that grinds me down, not the shows. Anyone who has to submit themselves to the less-than-tender mercies of South West Trains and the London Tube will know what I mean. So what a treat it was the other day to attend a magnificent piano recital held in our parish church in Claygate, Surrey, just a five-minute walk from home. The local music society had achieved the astonishing coup of luring the hot young Macedonian pianist Simon Trpcˇeski to perform the same recital he was to play the following day at the Wigmore Hall. The Telegraph's own Geoffrey Norris has praised this pianist to the skies: "It is not simply that Simon Trpc˘eski has a phenomenal technique. Crucially he has the musical intelligence to know how to apply it and at the same time can convey such joy in doing so. All these qualities were in evidence at Holy Trinity Church, and the audience was spellbound by his programme of Schubert, Bach and Liszt. There is nothing show-offy about Trpc˘eski's modest platform manner, just a sense of complete command, understanding and enjoyment. Listening to him I was reminded of a wonderful remark by Alfred Brendel. "What is piano playing of genius?" he asked. Playing that is at once correct and bold. Its correctness tells us that's how it has to be. Its boldness presents us with a surprising and overwhelming realisation: what we had thought impossible becomes true. There was one moment in the recital that was especially magical. As he played Liszt's Les jeux d'eaux à la Villa d'Este, which so wonderfully captures the sounds of playing fountains, rain started to patter on the church roof. It was as if the heavens themselves wanted to contribute to Trpc˘eski's sublime music-making.