The police were trying to kettle us in Oxford Circus and a group of us managed to break
away and move south, pursued by the coppers – who were on horseback, on foot, in their riot wagons and in a couple of helicopters. They chased us to Broadwick Street in Soho, where the
inevitable face-off ensued. The tension was high and the coppers in body armour, shields up, truncheons raised, moved in. Then boom! In the corner of my eye I saw ‘Mona Lisa Wielding A
Bazooka’ straight in front of us, the size of the back of a bus. Itwas a Banksy, of course, and it lent such an inspirational uplift to the proceedings that I felt his
art had become the very soul of the city, empowering us with its intelligence and liberty and encouraging us onwards. We got the fuck out of there, like slippery eels, and later that night I went
back to that spot just to relive the moment, to look at his art on my own. It blew me away and I was all the more inspired because I knew him.
The next time I saw him I told him of the piece of theatre that had taken place and the effect of his Mona Lisa on the proceedings. I think he smiled at that – it was high praise
indeed.
Sometimes when I saw him in London we would just wander without any destination in mind. Just me and him, no rhyme, no reason. And it was in these quiet moments that he would explain his latest
ideas to me. I would just listen. It wasn’t that he ever asked for a response and all I could express really was my interest in whether it sounded goodor not. As we
wandered I remember him telling me that he was going to commission a sculpture of Liberty and her scales, wearing stockings and suspenders, as a prostitute that could be bought, and that he was
going to have it raised in a public square somewhere in London.
I acknowledged the idea but was foolish enough to assume it would never happen. I just thought he was getting ahead of himself. His thoughts were always on full tilt. The money it would cost, et
cetera, seemed too far-fetched and I asked him about this but he said he was going to put every penny he had into it. He was so into his plans for bigger things, bigger statements, that I kept
quiet, in case he didn’t achieve them. But how wrong I was. I wasn’t there when he raised his Statue of Liberty in Clerkenwell, maybe I didn’t deserve to be either. Oh me of
little faith! He bowled me over with his conviction, having the wherewithal to carry this project entirely at his own expense.
He never gave me the impression of having much money; his clothes weren’t extravagant, we never ate when we met, he was skinny. Every penny went to further his vision.
I was just lucky to hear about some of these plans. But I could see he was fulminating on his course. He’d only just started doing work that wasn’t graffiti. His energy was definite and
careering, naturally emanating. He was on an upward curve, God-given and righteous.
Similarly, when we were walking past the impressive statue of Boadicea and her chariot outside the Houses of Parliament he just said casually, ‘I’m going to put a wheel clamp on
that.’ And later, he did. The image of this British warrior being stopped in her tracks by petty officialdom is so him, irony for the masses. And, then again, he had this idea: ‘You
know how students always put a traffic cone on the heads of statues on a Saturday night when they’re pissed? Well I’m going to get Rodin’s ‘The Thinker’ cast,full sized, with a bollard on his head.’ And we would just jog on whilst the City polluted us. Silence falling again between us.
Sure enough it was done – on Shaftsbury Avenue! It was huge and weighed tons and would have cost an arm and a leg to commission and he needed a truck and a crane just to plonk it there.
It’s incredible that he believed in this so much that he would cough up all his hard-earned cash just to have the satisfaction of bugging-out the passers-by on their way to work the next day.
For the
away and move south, pursued by the coppers – who were on horseback, on foot, in their riot wagons and in a couple of helicopters. They chased us to Broadwick Street in Soho, where the
inevitable face-off ensued. The tension was high and the coppers in body armour, shields up, truncheons raised, moved in. Then boom! In the corner of my eye I saw ‘Mona Lisa Wielding A
Bazooka’ straight in front of us, the size of the back of a bus. Itwas a Banksy, of course, and it lent such an inspirational uplift to the proceedings that I felt his
art had become the very soul of the city, empowering us with its intelligence and liberty and encouraging us onwards. We got the fuck out of there, like slippery eels, and later that night I went
back to that spot just to relive the moment, to look at his art on my own. It blew me away and I was all the more inspired because I knew him.
The next time I saw him I told him of the piece of theatre that had taken place and the effect of his Mona Lisa on the proceedings. I think he smiled at that – it was high praise
indeed.
Sometimes when I saw him in London we would just wander without any destination in mind. Just me and him, no rhyme, no reason. And it was in these quiet moments that he would explain his latest
ideas to me. I would just listen. It wasn’t that he ever asked for a response and all I could express really was my interest in whether it sounded goodor not. As we
wandered I remember him telling me that he was going to commission a sculpture of Liberty and her scales, wearing stockings and suspenders, as a prostitute that could be bought, and that he was
going to have it raised in a public square somewhere in London.
I acknowledged the idea but was foolish enough to assume it would never happen. I just thought he was getting ahead of himself. His thoughts were always on full tilt. The money it would cost, et
cetera, seemed too far-fetched and I asked him about this but he said he was going to put every penny he had into it. He was so into his plans for bigger things, bigger statements, that I kept
quiet, in case he didn’t achieve them. But how wrong I was. I wasn’t there when he raised his Statue of Liberty in Clerkenwell, maybe I didn’t deserve to be either. Oh me of
little faith! He bowled me over with his conviction, having the wherewithal to carry this project entirely at his own expense.
He never gave me the impression of having much money; his clothes weren’t extravagant, we never ate when we met, he was skinny. Every penny went to further his vision.
I was just lucky to hear about some of these plans. But I could see he was fulminating on his course. He’d only just started doing work that wasn’t graffiti. His energy was definite and
careering, naturally emanating. He was on an upward curve, God-given and righteous.
Similarly, when we were walking past the impressive statue of Boadicea and her chariot outside the Houses of Parliament he just said casually, ‘I’m going to put a wheel clamp on
that.’ And later, he did. The image of this British warrior being stopped in her tracks by petty officialdom is so him, irony for the masses. And, then again, he had this idea: ‘You
know how students always put a traffic cone on the heads of statues on a Saturday night when they’re pissed? Well I’m going to get Rodin’s ‘The Thinker’ cast,full sized, with a bollard on his head.’ And we would just jog on whilst the City polluted us. Silence falling again between us.
Sure enough it was done – on Shaftsbury Avenue! It was huge and weighed tons and would have cost an arm and a leg to commission and he needed a truck and a crane just to plonk it there.
It’s incredible that he believed in this so much that he would cough up all his hard-earned cash just to have the satisfaction of bugging-out the passers-by on their way to work the next day.
For the
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