We queued for 3 hours with a couple of cans of local cider - it seemed appropriate as Bristol is the home of scrumpy and Bristol is the home of everyones favourite street artist, Banksy.
In the queue, his name was in the air like tropical mosquitos-
'Banksy...buzzbuzzbuzz... Banksy...buzzbuzz... Banksy'
The waiting crowd - teenage students with backpacks, little kids in raincoats, mums and dads on day-trips - were all hissing the name and asking who he was, chatting about what the images meant, relaying what they had read in the paper about Him.
His name is simple to say, and it sells newspapers - It has become an adjective for any subversive scribbling or stencilling and the word excites people young and old.
His work is hard to find, secretive, unexpected, even ignored.
In London Bridge, thousands of commuters passed by a wall with his picture of a girl losing a heart-shaped balloon on it until it was cleaned off a few years ago. Some would have smiled at it, a few may have taken solace in the message, but most would have ignored it.
And now its gone.
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