Seven Years with Banksy (12 page)

I climbed for some time to the top of the quarry and found some huge boulders balancing against each other, a bit like an ancient quoit. I perched myself on top of one and whistled down to the
lads so they would know where I was. I laid down and looked up into the sky, the photons flickering into my retinas. I listened to my breath and found my peace of mind, still fizzing on the clever
chemicals. From there I could look down on the artists. It was typical of their ethic. They came all this way to do work that hardly anyone would ever see, because the work was the imperative,
coming through them. Ego and money didn’t come into it.
Expression is the key and they were busy unlocking its many doors. I was just blissing out, feeling slightly
frazzled by now, and I must have fallen asleep.

I awoke, hearing some whistles. The air was still, my eyes blinked open, I wondered where I was and then it all came back to me. I took in the scene once again. Down below, like Somerset’s
answer to the Serengeti, was a plain full of awesome metal beasts, brightly flourishing their new colours. A pride of newly evolved creatures. Once again Robin had made me laugh. The morning had
broken. It was about 7 a.m. and I made my way down to them. As I came down they started to move off, so I walked along one of the spines of the hills that led down to the quarry floor. I caught up
with the crew but nobody spoke about what they had just done. As we found our way back through the saplings we resurfaced into the twenty-first century. It felt like we had been absorbed into a
zone somewhere else in time
but now we were back in the real world. As we emerged through the leaves a local man was approaching us with his dog, heading towards the quarry. He
was, unsurprisingly, slightly perturbed by ‘young ’uns’ on an early morning constitutional, but we civilly exchanged morning greetings, as you do, and went on our merry way.

As we crossed the road and approached the car the man duly disappeared. Robin said with some urgency, ‘Quick, let’s get out of here pronto. It only takes a mobile phone call from
someone like him to set the local police on us.’ His caution made sense, so we all took our places back in the car. Mookie gunned the engine and took off in the opposite direction from where
we had arrived. After five minutes of silence, relaxed conversation started up and we were all still feeling good. I looked at Robin from the back seat. His window was down, hair flicking in the
wind.

After we had ghosted out of the quarry,
I began some subconscious reconnoitring and started to figure out where we were. A few landmarks struck me as we rolled along these
back lanes I so loved. The car was hushed and the windows rolled down. A little of the Sunday morning breeze would whisper in and stroke across us. Everything was lush, bright and green. We were
driving under tree-tunnels for most of our way. It was just one of those glorious spring days, verging on summer. Ah yes, I thought, there was Vobster… church spire. We spoke a little to
each other, but it was reserved and polite, not much was said, so I asked where we were heading to. ‘For a swim,’ replied Robin.

‘You’re kidding?’ I said, and now I clicked as to where we were going. We were getting close to what the locals refer to as ‘Paradise Quarry’ near Holcomb.

I had been there many times on hot summer days with my brother over the past few years. It was a spectacular place with tall cliffs surrounding a huge pool of crystal-
clear
spring water, many hundreds of metres in circumference, perfect for diving into from great heights. I had been there when countless young tykes were jumping in from the cliff edges, twenty metres
high or more. It was a really sublime place to be.

As we approached the second quarry of the outing the excitement in the car began to grow again. This quarry was also cordoned off with huge boulders and fences and warning signs which, of
course, did not stop us from negotiating our entrance. To be fair, there had been some bad accidents there – rare, but serious when they had occurred. But there was no way you could keep all
the youth away from a place like this. Kids had made it their own after the mining had stopped.

I was on home ground now and happy to be there. An early morning dip seemed to be the perfect antidote to our drowsiness. It would clear the fuzziness from around our edges. I was also impressed
that Robin’s
mates knew of this place; he obviously kept good company. So we hopped and skipped and made our way deeper into the dell to an open swathe of stone. It was
always a splendid sight to behold. The water was still and glistening and beckoned us towards it. The sun’s rays bounced off it and enticed us. We ran the last few yards, whooping the call
like the Lost Boys. We stripped down to our boxer shorts and splashed or dived in.

The place was quiet and serene with not a soul to be seen, apart from some wildlife that retreated to the surrounding woods. The water was invigorating and I swam out to one of my favourite
corners of the cliff walls from where I could climb up a way to dive back in. It was a couple of hundred yards of swimming and the water was bracing enough to take the breath away. I reached my
spot, climbed up and took in some of the sun’s rays. By now Robin was halfway out in the water, all on his own, observing me in silence. I dived back in, relishing the feeling
of re-entry, and swam underwater some way towards where I thought he was. I spotted his legs before I came to the surface, out of breath, sucking in some air. He was smiling at
me.

For Robin to smile was a rare occurrence, despite his obvious dark humour. I looked at him, fresh-faced, both our eyes were bright and we were as cold as fuck. We could’ve been
seven-year-olds, we felt so alive and abandoned to nature.

‘You all right then?’ he said.

‘Fuck, yeah,’ I replied.

We treaded water for a while. ‘How was the wedding?’

‘Good. Really good.’ I showed him my ring for a second.

‘That’s good then, fucking great, well done. Nice girl.’

‘Yeah,’ I nodded. ‘Yeah. Hey. I’m really glad to be out with you, you know, here, the whole night; all of it. It means something to me,’ I said.

‘I know,’ he said, and then, ‘C’mon. I’m fucking freezing.’

He ducked back into the water and I followed suit and we swam alongside each other back to the quarry’s only sloping shore where the other three were messing about. They had found a little
boat and were paddling around in it like chumps, goofing around like crazy kids. It was hilarious.

Eventually, we all got out and sat on a big rock and spliffed up. By now we were all renewed and energized. We smoked and chatted; it felt really free and totally cool. I was loving it. An
eclectic bunch sitting together like the good friends from ‘Tales from the river bank’. What a way to begin a new day.

We left Paradise Quarry in good spirits and lazily navigated these back roads of Avalon. Mists were still lying in meadows and cow parsley brushed the car
and came in the open windows. Falcons and larks were up, flocks of crows specked against the landscape and we caught sight of a few hares dashing about.

After a while we saw some parked cars along the lane. A space opened up and in a small field there were a few dozen cars parked in an orderly fashion with their boots open.

‘Yeah, a car boot sale, let’s stop!’ It was around 9 a.m. and the traders were just beginning to set up. We were likely the first customers and piled out of the car to knowing
looks. We straightened up. The folk were pleasant and cheerful and we responded in a like-minded manner. The smell of freshly baked cakes and biscuits wafted past us and, as one, we followed the
trail to the cake-stall, the first port of call at
any jumble or car boot sale. As by now we were ravenously hungry we splashed out what cash we had to the delight of the West
Country lady selling the cakes – lemon-drizzle, scones, biscuits, fruit bread, and more. With handfuls of goodies each we found a space to sit down and have a breakfast picnic, along with
mugs of fresh tea. Not bad, not bad at all. We chatted and ate and rose again to look at the wares for sale.

There wasn’t too much of interest but we did the rounds and I picked up a book. Robin was looking at a fluffy toy rabbit over and over again. I wasn’t sure why. He bought it and came
back over to sit with us. It was fair to say that we were all pretty spaced out by now and sentences trailed off into nothing. I asked Robin why he had bought the rabbit. ‘For my
niece,’ he said. Then he started to play with it. He walked it over to me and put on a silly voice, which was funny enough, and then he said in his rabbit words: ‘What’s death, Mr
Robert?
What happens when you die? Tell us?’

It was sort of an odd question and it took me back to my outburst in the pub in Portobello Road where he had been ribbing me over my reading of
The Tibetan Book of the Dead
. I took the
rabbit and walked him along my knee a little, picking up the thread. ‘Well, you know, Mr Rabbit, death is like a long dark tunnel that you move down in some way, which may scare you a little,
but what you do is you just keep on going, towards the light. You just ignore all demons and head towards the light. Do you understand? And then you’ll be okay,’ I said as I looked at
him. Robin took the rabbit back.

‘Yes, yes,’ he said. Everybody looked on as Robin walked the fluffy toy back to him. It was quiet, we dazed and dozed. Then Robin perked up and said out of the blue: ‘Hey does
anybody know how to cook the perfect egg?’

‘No’.

‘Hey?’

‘No’.

‘Tell us then.’

‘I saw it on “Nigella Lawson”, on telly.’ We laughed a little at that. ‘No – what you do is, she says, you should just put the egg in cold water, bring it to
the boil, with a little salt, and when it’s just bubbling, just take it off the heat and let it rest for a while and then you’ve got the perfect egg.’

We raised our eyebrows. It was off topic but, hey, now we knew how to cook an egg perfectly. I’ve tried it since and always cook my eggs that way. By now our heads were elsewhere.
Eventually someone said, ‘C’mon, let’s get back.’ So we moved on again.

When we returned to Bristol some of us had been dozing in the car. We awoke to a mid-morning lazy Sunday, the streets empty. We dropped one or two off and we headed over to Easton to
someone’s house. It was cool and shaded inside, sun blazing into the garden. I popped out and bought some fruit
and halloumi from St Mark’s Road so we could make a
fruit salad. When I returned Robin was packing a bag.

‘I’ve got to go, got to catch my train back up to London.’ He looked slightly downcast and became quiet. ‘Can’t you stay and eat?’ I asked, as I placed the
things in the kitchen.

‘No, I didn’t realize it was so late, I’ve got to leave.’

‘Okay.’ I said.

He picked up something to put into his bag. It was a helmet, not a motorcycle helmet, some other type. ‘What’s that?’ I asked.

‘Riot cop’s helmet.’

‘Yeah? Let’s have a look.’ Robin put it on.

‘I bought it off a mate,’ he said.

‘Looks heavy! Do you feel like a cop with it on?’ I asked.

‘No, it’s surprisingly light – try it.’ So I put it on, and yes, it was very light. Much lighter than my motorcycle helmet. It had a visor and neck flap for protection
against rear blows.

‘These coppers look so hot and sweaty with them on usually,’ I commented and I handed it back. That was enlightening, trying on a riot policeman’s helmet.
I wondered about how he came by it; how the copper lost it, and followed my train of thought. It was typical of Robin wanting to own such a thing. It was like a research item or something.

He didn’t have long as he had called a cab when I was out buying the fruit. Time was at hand and I knew I probably wouldn’t see him for a while. He wasn’t the kind to write. I
had invited him to Stockholm to visit but I didn’t expect he’d make it over either. He was on another tangent. I’d known him for seven years by now and followed his meteoric rise.
Some say life goes in seven-year cycles. Who knows, maybe? I was off to continue on my way and I knew too that big things were waiting for him and in that moment I said so. ‘I guess
you’ve got to go, they’re waiting for you up there, big things waiting for you.’

He looked up; he was a little more downcast than five minutes before. The house was dark and quiet.

‘Taxi’s here,’ said the other guy from the front room.

Robin picked up his pack, about-turned, looked over his shoulder at us and was gone. There was a sudden void where he had been standing. The place seemed empty. The two of us that were left made
the fruit salad and sat out in the garden in the sun and ate. We spoke about this and that but behind our eyes we were both seeing in each other that we missed him already. He’d gone and that
was that.

And so, now we close. I’ve been over in Sweden having some kids and roaming the Nordic wastes for another seven-year cycle. I’m often back in
England and I’ve observed Robin’s continued ascendancy, the endless newspaper coverage and the ‘looking for Banksy’ hysteria. The kid is front-page news. His incursion into
museums, his movie, he follows a line from Chatterton to Cary Grant, a lone rebel genius from the city of Bristol. He’s shown you can be famous without being known and that has got to be the
best sort of fame – a whole spectrum away from cheap, gaudy, desperate celebrity. He shows up the complete and utter vacuity of celebrity. I would never wish that kind of fame on him,
it’s like a curse, Coleridge’s albatross, weighing you down. It’s just not worth the money.

The establishment want to take bites out of him although they could hardly give a fuck about his messages. Where there’s money to be made, who cares?

I’ve seen, too, on the other side of things, his work trashed by holier-than-thou street politicos who believe his graffiti brings with it gentrification. He moves all
sides into a fervour, that’s quite an accomplishment.

Now, someone like me is obviously going to defend him. I’ve always loved his appropriation of images from the news only to transform them into iconic images of insurrection. I’ve
always loved his humour and its dark, melancholic edge he can’t shake off.