Another day and another journey; which this time seems to involve a quest to use as many different forms of transport as is possible on one trip. We leave early to take the car as far as Bath railway station. Onwards via train to Brissle where we catch the number nine bus, asking the driver if he will kindly announce our destination when we arrive. No need: everyone else is going to the same place and the bus duly empties at the Bristol City Museum & Art Gallery. Along with the rest of the world, we have come to see the Banksy exhibition. The final transfer is by Shanks’ pony as we join the soft shoe shuffle that comprises the queue.
We ask an attendant how long he thinks it will take to gain entry to the museum; the line, if it was such, and not in its current incarnation as a snake, would probably reach Portishead. ‘Oh, in excess of three hours’ he replies happily. We join the end and consider the worth of waiting and possible alternatives. Whilst we are musing, there is a sudden spurt of action and we find ourselves at the ‘two hours from this point’ notice within twenty minutes. We decide to stay as any concept of time is clearly meaningless in this city. A bit like Falmouth really where the stock answer to anything temporal (apart from how long has it been raining?) is ‘ten minutes’: how far is it to the docks? How long will breakfast be? How long have you lived here?
The queue has taken over a side-street and is six or seven lanes in width, much like those in airport check-in’s but minus the luggage although not the push-chairs. There is limited entertainment: the People’s Front of Stoke Croft issue blank cards and pens and encourage us to create an artistic impression of our experiences in the Banksy queue which may or may not be displayed in another exhibition. Jack declines the offer being heavily preoccupied with a biography of Brian Clough and claiming to be uninspired by the hordes. My picture is of numerous matchstick people in rows (us) with a van at each end. One van belongs to an enterprising ice-cream sales person who will, apparently, be able to retire by the end of the exhibition later this month. The other van is an ambulance which has been called to attend to a woman who has collapsed with what, to my untrained eye, looks like a panic attack. ‘At least she’ll get into the museum straight away now’ says a rather uncharitable woman ahead of us.
After two hours and twenty minutes we reach the door of the museum which makes me smile. And I continue to smile the whole time I’m inside. You can read professional reviews or watch video clip below; no point me describing everything in detail. I’ve never had so much fun in a museum: the actual Banksy rooms are brilliant but my favourite bit was searching all the usual exhibitions for pieces that he’s hidden within. It’s all ‘laugh-out-loud’ and everyone looks so happy. Even the attendants, who have so far helped over 175,000 punters to enjoy this free exhibition, continue to grin. If you’re physically able to stand in a queue for two and a half hours I commend this to you and defy you to be disappointed. It’s a grand day out.
http://www.banksy.co.uk/
We ask an attendant how long he thinks it will take to gain entry to the museum; the line, if it was such, and not in its current incarnation as a snake, would probably reach Portishead. ‘Oh, in excess of three hours’ he replies happily. We join the end and consider the worth of waiting and possible alternatives. Whilst we are musing, there is a sudden spurt of action and we find ourselves at the ‘two hours from this point’ notice within twenty minutes. We decide to stay as any concept of time is clearly meaningless in this city. A bit like Falmouth really where the stock answer to anything temporal (apart from how long has it been raining?) is ‘ten minutes’: how far is it to the docks? How long will breakfast be? How long have you lived here?
The queue has taken over a side-street and is six or seven lanes in width, much like those in airport check-in’s but minus the luggage although not the push-chairs. There is limited entertainment: the People’s Front of Stoke Croft issue blank cards and pens and encourage us to create an artistic impression of our experiences in the Banksy queue which may or may not be displayed in another exhibition. Jack declines the offer being heavily preoccupied with a biography of Brian Clough and claiming to be uninspired by the hordes. My picture is of numerous matchstick people in rows (us) with a van at each end. One van belongs to an enterprising ice-cream sales person who will, apparently, be able to retire by the end of the exhibition later this month. The other van is an ambulance which has been called to attend to a woman who has collapsed with what, to my untrained eye, looks like a panic attack. ‘At least she’ll get into the museum straight away now’ says a rather uncharitable woman ahead of us.
After two hours and twenty minutes we reach the door of the museum which makes me smile. And I continue to smile the whole time I’m inside. You can read professional reviews or watch video clip below; no point me describing everything in detail. I’ve never had so much fun in a museum: the actual Banksy rooms are brilliant but my favourite bit was searching all the usual exhibitions for pieces that he’s hidden within. It’s all ‘laugh-out-loud’ and everyone looks so happy. Even the attendants, who have so far helped over 175,000 punters to enjoy this free exhibition, continue to grin. If you’re physically able to stand in a queue for two and a half hours I commend this to you and defy you to be disappointed. It’s a grand day out.
http://www.banksy.co.uk/
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