I was at the private view for this, a couple of weeks ago, but you can never really get a good grip on things at nights like that, so I decided to wait for the dust to settle before putting some thoughts down, and besides - it was a fairly boozy affair and there is nothing worse than reading reviews where the author has been patently drunk, it's so... 90s.

Mind you... So 90s would have been a fairly good name for this show. Now that I’ve been back and had a proper look about, I’m afraid that sinking feeling I had first time around has returned with a vengeance.

Sarah Lucas is generally considered a YBA – that's a Young British Artist (although she’s older than me - slightly) and gets lumped in with contemporary Tracy Emin. I never really liked Tracy Emin until quite recently - I hate all that me, me ,me – it's all about me confessional, self absorbed mess that most conceptual artists throw at us. But over the years she has grown on me. Perhaps she's just grown up and started making art that has some meaning I can connect with. She's one of the few British artists that can really talk eloquently about her work and make you want to understand it and her recent piece in the grounds of Liverpool Anglican Cathederal is a beautiful, modest and humble little gem.

But enough about Tracy - what about Sarah? Well, exactly. What about Sarah! She does have an important place within the context of British contemporary art in the late 80s and early to mid 90s. She will always appear in coffee table books and retrospectives of the time with single, selected pieces put in the right chronological context, but en masse, altogether and without anything to make it relevant, it all looks very silly.

To be fair, Sarah Lucas has never tried to impress us with her craft. The works are often grubby, soiled, tatty affairs made from discarded items such as chicken carcasses and Spam. Yes, Spam. Some may think this makes them raw and real, but everything is so crude and badly made, with no care or love; even the reproduction on printed pieces is shabby and poorly executed.

I spoke to one of the curators who told me she was very modest and likable, embarrassed herself by the pomp and prissiness of such a giant white space. Perhaps it’s not really her fault; we should blame the Tate for trying to make this a big show, or perhaps she’s just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Many of the ideas were as past their view by dates as the chicken was past its sell by. The new work seems so old, probably because the older, more successful, pieces were holding them back. There were quite a few pieces that seemed to just be filling space and should never have left the studio; the cigarette and brown paper drawings in particular.

My strongest memory is of a strange scene at the private view. A young and very good looking woman in a hideously expensive black Prada cocktail dress and six inch stilettos standing in rapt contemplation of a chicken carcass. legs akimbo, trussed across a battered wire mattress (that's the chicken - not the girl). Yes love, it’s supposed to be a vagina. That old chestnut.