Free Seven Years with Banksy by Robert Clarke

idea previously cracked me up all the more. In my usual journeys through the capital I saw many more
graffiti sites proclaimed as official by Mr Banks.
    I imagined kids being arrested by the police as they painted, only to tell the good officer, ‘But it’s an official graffiti area!’ and the cops having to let the little tykes
go.
    Banksy: 1 – Establishment: 0.

 
CHAPTER SIX
MILLENNIUM

 
    I had been gallivanting around, spending every spare penny on travelling to see Johanna in Stockholm, doing clubs, some building, some gardening, whatever I
could pick up. The nights were drawing in, the millennium was fast approaching. I hadn’t seen Robin for a stretch and I didn’t expect to particularly. He was busy, moving in his circles
and manifesting his plan for world domination.
    Then one night, quite late, I was sloping up one of Bristol’s hills, coming out of Montpelier into St Andrews. It was gloomy, wet and cold, you could hear the sound of trains from the main
track nearby. The hazy light from street lamps reflected up at me dimly from the puddles on the pavement. I bumped into a gaggle of boys and young men moving solemnly and swiftly along the road.
One of them was Robin. I’d never seen him with these people before but I knew one of them slightly. I immediately got the feeling that something was wrong. Robinhardly
acknowledged me, he had a backpack on and wasn’t speaking. The guy I knew told me in hushed tones that they had just left a funeral and wake for a guy from a Bristol collective band called
the Moonflowers. The young lad had taken his own life.
    The Moonflowers were a sort of hippy-punk crossover band. They lived in a big shared house up in St Andrews. I never knew them well but I went up there a couple of times with a Spanish girl who
hung out with them. It was a creative space with lots of musicians and artists from all over. A real bohemian scene, peaceful and lacking pretensions. They had it going on for a while and were
making noises on the underground. When they broke up they fragmented into many creative pieces. But standing there, hearing this news was a tragic moment.
    I could see Robin was in pain, shoulders hunched; he was shocked, dejected and confused as to the dark reasons for this loss, and it made me feel sad too. I wantedto say
something, to make a difference, but there was nothing. I asked him if he was in town for long but he was en route to Temple Meads station to catch a train, London-bound. I stood aside and let the
group pass and watched them go down the hill, their slouched, silent forms moving off and blending in with the murk. I turned, walked to the top of the hill and stopped. I had forgotten where I was
going and why.
    I had never seen Robin looking so forlorn. I felt for him.
    The millennium arrived but nobody really knew what they were celebrating or why. It felt pretty vacuous but it gave us all the right to get gloriously trashed. So plans were set, ideas mooted
until my mate Fabbie, who ran clubs, decided to have a riotous party of bands, DJs and movies with all the added extras he was renowned for. I was asked to do the door to keep the uninvited out
– not to mention the psychos who would duly show up with nowhere else to go, justas Big Ben would be ringing out. It suited me, I actually didn’t want to get
alcohol poisoning like everybody else. A mouthful of champagne would suffice while I kept an eye on proceedings, and maybe a joint.
    The venue was to be ‘The Cube’, a multimedia complex around King’s Square. I spent a fair amount of my spare time there due to its eclectic underground avant-garde programme.
It was a place of constant enjoyment for the likes of me who prefer their culture raw, straight up and independent.
    All the preparations were done and the big night arrived. I was pleased to have this refuge to shelter in while the rest of the city would be losing its collective mind. Ours was a ticket-only
extravaganza and I would