Seven Years with Banksy (11 page)

Things quietened down thereafter and people started to ebb away, back to their lives. Robin sloped off in due course. I didn’t watch him go. I knew he knew that I was on my path and
he’d always liked Johanna. That was all we needed to know. To be going where you should be going.

It was perhaps a year later, as an interesting postscript to this little episode, that I was passing through London from Stockholm, on my way to Bristol via
Paddington Station. Jesse had wanted to hook up, but I had no time to visit him so we arranged to meet at the train terminal. I stood, my back to the wall, outside W. H. Smiths, such was the throng
of people making their way in the evening rush. I loved the station; it was beautiful – one of Brunel’s finest.

I’d been arriving at and leaving London through its portals for decades. Observing its rush was a favourite past time of mine but these days it was heavy with armed coppers strapped with
machine guns ambling the concourse with pained expressions etched on their faces. Out of this mess came the familiar face of Jesse, sporting a pea coat, all buttoned up and carrying a cardboard
poster roll. His smile shone through the crowd and we embraced. We retired to the quietest spot for a cup of tea while the crowds milled around
us. The din still made it
necessary to raise our voice. ‘This is for you,’ he said, sipping his tea, and he handed me the poster roll.

‘Yeah, what is it?’ I asked.

‘Take it out, have a look.’

So I did just that. There was an image of a young boy in a Zorro-type mask and cape, both his arms hanging down, with vinyl records in each hand. I looked at Jesse for an explanation.
‘It’s something Robin helped with; it’s the cover for Shadow’s latest: “The Outsider”.’

He went on to explain that he had come to quite a fruitful arrangement with Robin artistically. I’m not sure if it was Jesse’s persistence or Robin’s contrariness that led to
the collaboration, probably a mix of both. I thanked Jesse for it; it was generous and thoughtful of him.

‘It’s nothing’ he replied. ‘It wouldn’t have happened without you, mate,’ he said.

So I took myself off to Stockholm and married my Swedish sweetheart. However,
there was a denouement between Robin and me that I had not foreseen. After our wedding I had
some unfinished business to attend to, so I returned to Bristol to tidy up some loose ends. Johanna was pregnant so I wanted to get things sorted quickly, such was my desire to be back in her arms.
I also needed to ride the Harley over to Sweden, so I booked a ferry from Newcastle to Gothenburg, Sweden’s west coast port, from where I could race north to the capital.

During this brief return to Bristol I asked my friend Fabbie if he wanted me to do the door for him one last time at one of his club nights, ‘Espionage’, which happened to be held on
an old ship tethered and anchored down in Bristol’s docks. It would be a good way to say goodbye to some of the local faces that would duly show up to such a legendary club night.

This old ship,
The Thekla
, had a Banksy piece on it. A grimacing grim reaper, replete with sickle, sitting in a boat, painted onto
the midship. It was a typical
off–the–wall, malevolent abstraction that succeeded in twisting your mind while producing a grin at the same time. Imagining Robin stealing out in the dead of night on a rowing boat
holding a lantern in one hand in the depths of a Bristol fog spoke volumes about his commitment and daring. This piece can still be seen and was respectfully kept despite a complete refurbishment
of the vessel some years back.

Anyhow, the night was fun as people rolled on board and the choice music enticed the crowd to dance with wild abandon, as was always the case at ‘Espionage’ nights. The clock was
approaching 1 a.m. and I was pretty well oiled at this point, celebrating the success of my recent wedding and life changes. Most people who were going to show for the night had already arrived and
a few were beginning to leave. Then a trio of shadowy forms waltzed up the gangplank and approached the door.

I straightened myself up and then I thought I recognized the silhouette of the middle figure of the group. To my great surprise it was Robin, flanked by a brace of lads, one
of whom went by the name of Mookie, a local street artist and a talent with a reputation of his own who worked citywide.

‘Fuck!’ said Robin. ‘What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be married?!’

It was good to see him, really good, and we fell into a loose conversation about recent happenings. He briefly introduced me to his acquaintances while I explained why I was back in town, albeit
for a short stay. We didn’t mention the last time we had seen each other at my drunken stag party and I, as usual, didn’t ask him too many questions on obvious subjects. I’d
learnt that, with him, too much enquiring was counter–productive to friendship.

‘Hey, you want to come out with us later?’ he asked.

‘Yeah, definitely,’ I replied.

This seemed like an exciting proposition. I was hyped–up to see him and I felt pretty unruly and boisterous, especially as I was soon heading back to my new obligations. The moon was high
that night, the sky clear, and a ring or haze of light encircled the moon, a result of refracted light through ice crystals high above, or something like that. Anyway, the heavens shone down in
their glory and I was more than up for a spring night of merrymaking and mayhem. There was a clear feeling that the night was just about to begin and energy rang through me like a blast. In due
course Robin hopped up the stairs again, along with his mates. I said goodbye to Fabbie and some others and we walked off the old ship and into the night.

There was something new on my ring finger that was unusual for me. It was itchy but I was getting used to it. A ‘claddagh’
ring with a heart-shaped ruby. It
winked at me in the starry light coming into the back of the car.

We were all in some old vehicle by now; there were five of us and I was sat in the back seat squashed between two – Robin and Mookie sat in the front, chatting in a hushed manner with
occasional bursts of laughter. We were cruising through the City en route to Montpelier where Robin said we were ‘gonna stop for a moment’. I think it was up on a one way road and the
City was quiet as dust. One of them took off for a while and we sat in the frost, silent, and waited. Stuck in the car you heard all the creaks of any movement. A scatter of MDMA pills with a bird
pattern appeared. I was familiar with this drug from my California days in the early ’80s, but not so recently. I took one and it was quiet again, our breath visible in the chill. It
wasn’t too long before my body acknowledged this new interloper being absorbed into my system and anticipatory
zips of energy were travelling up my spine. I hadn’t
eaten in hours, of course, and now I was wide awake. This was going to be a cool night, all the omens spoke of it. I couldn’t think of a better way to say goodbye to old England than this
unfolding adventure.

If you’ve ever been through the neighbourhood of Montpelier in Bristol you’ll be familiar with its terraced buildings that stagger down a steep hill, so garden walls can be very tall
from the back end. I was counting my breaths for some reason when I was made to look up sharply. A fox was right in front, but above us, on a wall, eyes glowing bright, and its retinas reflecting
our car lights. ‘Look, look,’ I said and we all turned to admire the wild city creature who was staring at us inquisitively.

It seemed to hold us in its thrall for some time before it started and loped down to the road from the wall and skulked off up the street, occasionally pausing on the brow of our hill to turn
its head again to look at us,
quietly, calmly, before trotting off a few yards and then looking round again. It did that until it disappeared from our sight and we had all been
silent in watching its departure. He was definitely our ally. No doubt.

Mookie came back all of a sudden and broke the spell. He jumped into the front seat along with a very large holdall. It was clinking and clanking away and he opened it up to reveal an array of
painting materials, predominantly spray-cans. He was showing off his wares, which met with Robin’s approval. Mookie was especially enamoured with a German brand of spray paint, which he
declared the best around presently and started to explain why as we crept off up the hill in the dark, car tyres crackling on the gravel in the road.

We put on some sounds, spliffed up and had a few beers as the journey got underway to a riveting collection of cross-wire conversations from front seat to back. We coasted south, down into
Somerset, the
fields and hills I knew so well, looming up at me and passing us by. It was like a farewell serenade to me and I lapped it up.

Eventually we came into a small town off the main route and there was mutual agreement to stop and get on with some art work, or as the residents would no doubt call it the next morning,
‘graffiti’. There was a rush of excitement as the boys all raided the holdall full of paint. We were slap-dab in the middle of this place and they just went haywire spraying anything
that didn’t move. Billboards got it, walls got it, the road got it, but they were pretty respectful of private property strangely enough. I just stood in the middle of the road, coming up
strongly on the MDMA witnessing a maelstrom of activity executed in lightning fashion.

There were colours, pictures and slogans. One of the dudes was in the process of a break-up with his girlfriend, so he posted up some elaborate prose on his situation. It was hilarious, like an
explosion of dervishes
from the car (which was just stopped in the middle of the road, doors open), bombing all that could be bombed. Bass beats pulsed out from the car’s
speakers, seemingly interspersed with Wagner’s Valkyries. Their natural passion was evident and they just went to it without a pause, laughing and conversing the whole time.

It didn’t occur to me to paint anything; I was more into taking in the episode as best I could as the art-shock was happening so fast and hard. An arc of stars whooshed over my head, the
moon gloriously fat in its fullness and the Somerset air fresh in the face. I chugged on my beer and watched it all unfold.

In one short snap it was all over and the crew stood back and admired each other’s work, cracking comments and taking the piss. I was thinking we should move off and the vibe collected as
we jumped back into the car. It was at fever pitch by now and was hardly containable in our confined
space as we moved off at speed to the main destination. It was there that
Robin wanted to execute something that appealed to him, a new idea, as I listened in from the back.

‘Where the fuck are we going to now?’ I thought, as we ferreted down ever smaller, high-hedged, ancient country lanes.

We were running loose on these empty carriageways in the early hours of the morning trying to find our obscure destination. I knew a lot of these rabbit-runs as I often careered down Somerset
way on the motorcycle. I peered through the windows, I didn’t recognize where I was at all – no landmarks or church spires, precious little to orientate our whereabouts. And then
suddenly Banksy said, ‘Yeah, this is it, this is the way. This is the right road,’ as the road became ever more narrow, more lost, and more leafy. We all wanted to get out and soak up
the country air to welcome the coming dawn, to awaken the senses in preparation for the new day.

‘Yeah, this is the place, stop, stop, STOP!’

We swung onto a patch for parking on the side of the road and fell out of the car in a reeling mass. I looked about and across the lane was a wide entrance to an old disused quarry, the way in
blocked by some boulders. The place beckoned us in as the heavens brightened with the promise of the rising sun and the stars began to fade. The holdall full of spray-cans was hoisted on a shoulder
and we walked in. The earlier hilarity had died down and a sense of purpose seemed to be emerging. It was peaceful and quiet with only the beginnings of a morning chorus to be heard. We whispered a
bit and Robin was in conversation about his immediate plans with Mookie.

The path wound through saplings. Coming up we were met by a vast arena of high cliffs enclosing the flat ground of the quarry floor, replete with earth mounds and maze-like channels of small
ravines
and little hills. Early perfumes were being released from spring flowers and the area was a sight to behold at such an hour and with our heads in such an open
state.

What had brought us here apart from its secluded beauty? ‘Ah yes,’ I heard as the main flat grounds came into view. A litter of burnt-out, insurance-job cars, all trashed and
plundered, lay about the place. Some were turned over, some sitting comfortably in washed-up mud. So this was the motive, came the realization: the urban fallout. I could imagine all these kids
joy-riding stolen cars down here from faraway towns, high on adrenalin and finding a way into the quarry to scramble and jalopy the machines into total defeat and submission. It was a fine
illustration of our modern world. Ballard would have loved the juxtaposition. There was an ugliness about it, of course, but these were boys who were going to transpose that and flip the picture
into a new perception, that much was evident.

The mutual acknowledgement that we were all coming up to peak on the drug at the same time was met with a quietude and we all sat on a stump looking down on the pack of
cars, a metal herd of redundancy. We chugged on bottles of water which someone had thought to bring. Robin discussed with the others what he was going to do. It was interesting listening to the
prep-talk and then they got to it just as the first rays of the breaking sun split themselves over the cliffs. They were on a creative high, immersed in their own clouds – this was the reason
for coming out tonight for them, to transform dilapidated cars into something from their imagination.

I could have easily set to it myself, just picked up some cans and chosen a car, but my mind was elsewhere. I watched Robin transform a wreck into a zebra-like creature before he took on another
car and worked that into something else entirely. I was free to do as I pleased and I got up to climb one
of the cliffs. It was great just to be here, to see them settle a
balance in a way that no one else would conceive of or bother with. I was off on my own trip with my own considerations and I took my chances to commune with this extraordinary place and to observe
the renaissance of nature fighting back against this ravaged landscape.