HAT!

Banksy Exhibition. A serious review.

I not-so-recently had the pleasure of visiting the Bristol museum with my girlfriend, whereupon we became part of the lurid fantasy into which Banksy had entangled the majority of the British Museum. In the middle of it he seems to have turned the little booth at which several shabby-looking people stand for apparently no reason whatsoever into a marvellous Ice cream van! With a Big Ice cream on the top! Except get this: the Ice cream has fallen over. No big deal right? You can just straighten it up, but Banksy, this man, this God, sat at his desk somewhere in Bristol, slaving away at designing all this marvellous art said, right: "make it that the big plastic Ice cream...is dripping!"

But wait! That's not even close to the extent of this man's astounding genius. As you stand humbly in a queue full of wankers and half-wits, bearing even the farts of the old couple in front of you, just to feel this man's mighty paint-splotched hand fondle your brain with his art, as you're doing that, you emerge into a room FULL, literally FULL of all the answers to those questions you have asked yourself while either tripping or concussed, like: "What would fish fingers look like if they were put into a fish tank and could wobble slightly?"

"What would other fast foods look like in several different places, wobbling to the same degree?"

"What would Tweety Bird look like if it had instead been invented by Fred West while he was stuck in traffic behind several elderly men?"

"What would one of those camera things outside pubs look like if there was two of them and they were in trees?"

Once you're done wandering around that for a bit, freeing yourselves of the pressure of said puzzling conundrums, you can either go into the cafe and enjoy some overpriced cake (that ice-cream van wasn't cheap) and tea, or you can follow the sweating, grunting, easily-amused crowd as it meanders over to the left and into a room full of framed artwork...with a twist.

And again these twists are like a whole new take on ingenuity, like by maybe making all the letters look like they're made out of wood and dotting the i with a broken bulb. Something like that, yeah? Because that's what makes Bristolians reflect on the true meaning of what that actual means and stuff. But in this room, there's everything! Similar to at the entrance, there's several depictions of People in Riot gear doing things like rocking on horses, or skipping daintily through a field; as though this now represents the limit of backward inventive-mindedness. Other than that, there's a picture of a boy rick-shawing some fat Caucasian couple into the dark, and on the floor there's some bits of brick which I think had something written on them, but I couldn't make it out because some kids were climbing on them.

Overall the whole experience is a bit underwhelming; like a light-show at Burger king. Or having sex with a door. The bits of "art" seem to be dotted randomly around the museum, but they're actually all just on the ground floor, so when you're looking around for something that'll esentially blow your mind, you end up surrounded by regular museum stuff, which by now seems so pointless it's like wandering through a hallway of toilet-ornaments, so you have to pretend to be interested in the regular junk, while you search wildly for anything vaguely beyond the norm. The whole thing becomes a desperate series of escapism, until finally you've exhausted every possibility and you scurry home, heaving a weary sigh, like a lonely vicar, or a world-weary graffiti artist

A brilliant read

I have come across simply the best book in existence. It's incredible, like a smart person having sex with your mind:

Coraline

No, it's not a hilarious new comedy. It's no cheery sing-song experience either. The new Tim Burton film is a middle sitter between puzzling adventure and dark, twisted, kiddy animation. A bit like a dream you once had in which you were a magical world, and you were being constantly visited by a girl in a little coat, again and again until your secrets were revealed and the whole thing turned into a perilous little mystery, and even a quest to find some different-coloured balls.

Yes. Just like that. But on a screen.

Anyway, the film's a experience. An unsettling one, but a charming and fulfilling one none-the-less.

Yeah so anyway, bolt.

Imagine you're sitting there. Jumbo mint-thins bleeding into the carpet from your stained slacks. Your arms are coated in last night's lasagne which you lick off lavishly in front of big brother live. Makes a change from wallowing in your own cheese-grease. Finally, bored of watching people sleep, you struggle to your bare, unruly feet. They slip around on the wine sloshing around on the carpet from that time you had your alcoholic younger sister over. You waddle your way over to the television. You reach for the button you assume turns it off. (You only saw that you should do it this way on one of those adverts for eco-efficiency, you LOVE how patronising they are. They feel like your only friend.) But wait, out of the corner of your eye you spot an unmarked dvd, lying with the shiny side up in a tub of what was once some very dissapointing rocky road. You lumber over and pick it up, you heap of a buffoon. You put it on and some cheesy animation washes over you like a tidal wave of ... things you don't understand. And it's animated! Pah! You press that button you were looking for and fall back with a slosh onto the carpet for a snooze. Hey, lardo! That movie you switched off was about to get better. Oh you senseless wobbling tub of all things twattish. The movie goes from: "Huh, ha! How cheesy. I hope it's not like this all the way through!" To: "Oh right it's not like that at all! It's funny and quirky and just like all things disney! And those pigeons are hilarious!" That last one eventually explains itself as you can tell. But Yeah. It's really worth watching for some delightful warm comedy. If you'd kept your pasty eyes open, you might've shed a tear at the sheer beauty of it.

It doesn't try to be all out comedy, because Disney are clever like that. They make you beg for the comedy, then flog you for your efforts. Then, when your back is bleeding like a waterfall of tomato puree and you're spitting and defocating all over the floor they throw some gourmet leftovers into your Tippex-covered skip. You thank them profusely, you try to follow them on your knees until you see through your bloody blurred vision the raising of a whip. You turn and wait for the pain. You know it's worth it. Maybe this time, at the end, that hamster will say that thing he says again. That'll be "cool".

Bolt-