A story that played out like a comedy caper has now finished in the courts. Two men have been sentenced for their part in the infamous 2019 theft of America—a solid gold, fully functioning toilet by Italian provocateur Maurizio Cattelan, valued at £4.8 million. The piece, which had been plumbed into Winston Churchill’s former residence at Blenheim Palace as part of an exhibition, was torn from its fittings in the dead of night, hours after the opening party.
The central criminal James “Jimmy” Sheen—an Oxford-based figure well-known to organised crime investigators—was handed an additional four years behind bars to be served after his current 19-year sentence for unrelated offences. His accomplice, Michael Jones, received two years and three months. The sentencing judge described both men as having “long and unenviable criminal records.”
The operation itself was part farce, part Ocean’s Eleven, with the gang leaving behind flooded floors and torn-out pipes in their wake. But make no mistake—this was a highly targeted art theft. The toilet, cast in 18-carat gold and designed by Cattelan as a cynical emblem of excess and exclusivity, was never going to be resold intact. Instead, within two weeks, 20 kilograms of its gleaming surface had already been melted down and sold in Birmingham for over half a million pounds.
Sheen, who pled guilty to burglary and conspiracy to handle criminal property, left a forensic trail behind him—DNA on-site, gold dust in his clothing, and a phone bursting with criminal chatter. A mix of Romany slang and cockney rhyming code formed the linguistic architecture of the heist, with “car” serving as a euphemism for gold. “The car is as good as money,” he said in a recorded message, confirming possession of what he coyly referred to as “it.”
Jones, whose involvement was less glamorous, made at least two reconnaissance visits to the stately home posing as a tourist. On one trip—booked under his name—he photographed the artwork and the door lock. In a moment of unintended levity during the trial, Jones confirmed he had indeed used the toilet, describing the golden experience as “splendid.”
The heist captured global media attention not only for its sheer audacity but also because of the symbolic value of the work. Cattelan’s America was not merely a bling-laden gimmick. It was, in the artist’s terms, a meditation on wealth, waste, and access. Once offered to visitors at the Guggenheim in New York for private use, it turned queuing into an act of participation—art as an absurd privilege. Its theft, strangely enough, may have been its most appropriate end.
Detective Superintendent Bruce Riddell of Thames Valley Police remarked on the complexity of the case, which involved twelve arrests and the examination of a vast trove of digital evidence. The pandemic, too, delayed proceedings. But while much of the sculpture is presumed to be lost forever, the trial at least restores a measure of closure to an episode that left both the art world and law enforcement scratching their heads.
Cattelan, as ever, has not commented—though one imagines he might consider the disappearance of America the final punchline to an already loaded joke.
Top Photo: Courtesy of Blenheim Palace