Monday, 26 August 2013

A Brief Encounter With Banksy

My friends mum met Banksy in Edinburgh- I kid you not! Almost died when I heard. Well at least I think it was him. I don't see why someone would be impersonating him like this. So here is the story for you guys -Exclusively for Strawberry Anarchy :) Let me know what you think. Also she said he did look most like the photo at the end of the article but thinner and without glasses. I sent her a few other photos of people I suspected could be Banksy including Thierry Guetta and JPS. The photo was published a few years back apparently outing Banksy, interesting this could well actually be him. 

A Brief Encounter With Banksy
  • The taxi took me straight into Waverley station. I was hot and tired and I had meant to ask the driver to drop me off outside so that I could buy a much-needed drink in a nearby pub. Checking the board of times of Arrivals and Depatures, I saw that I had over an hour to kill. I wandered aimlessly around the station thinking about that drink when, to my delight, I stumbled upon a pub. It was very busy and the queue at the bar was horrendous. I ordered a pint of Amstel and looked for a place to sit. Although it was crowded there was an empty chair against the back wall alongside a large table. On the other side of the table was a long seat. The back was covered with red tartan. It was occupied by a man sitting on his own. I noticed he wore a dark waistcoat, without a jacket. He was of medium build with a swarthy complexion, his dark hair swept back from his face which broke into a smile as I sat down. I didn't smile back but pretended not to notice. Aware that I had caught the man's attention and was being watched, I purposely looked over at the table on the other side of me. There was large party of young men sitting at it. Two women had just joined them. One of them was young and pretty and plainly enjoying the attention she was receiving. The other woman looked older and I imagined her to be the mother. Suddenly the lone man got up and hurriedly left the table. I relaxed little, but a short while later he returned with a fresh pint giving me yet another engaging smile. I again pretended not to notice. The party of people had now left so I busied myself checking messages on my mobile. It was then the man spoke, I wasn't at all surprised as I half expected it. “Excuse me,” he said. “Would you mind telling me how much you paid for your drink?” Well that was an original chat up line, I thought. “£3.99,” I said politely. “That's expensive,” he said. But then I pointed out that it was Amstel and not Tennants which I noticed he was drinking. “Amstel is quite strong,” he said, looking at my pint. I explained that I wasn't keen on Tennats finding it too … thin, has no body to it. He nodded as he looked at his glass. “I bought a pint, to save queueing twice for a half pint.” I said He laughed. “ I usually can only get Amstel in London.” “London,” he said, you're from London?” “No, I live in Inverness,” I replied. Although I really didn't want to talk to him, I found myself doing just that. The conversation flowed easily between us with no awkward pauses. We gabbled about everything and anything as if making up for lost time. During the conversation he mentioned that he had five houses. I asked if he rent them out and, laughing, replied no, he moves around between them. He hadn't been to the house he was now going to in six months! “What do you do,” I asked curiously. He smiled and said that he was actually a famous artist. Not taking him seriously I asked, would I know you? “I'm sure you would,” he replied slightly boastful. I asked his name. Leaning forward he passed me his mobile and said that the first name at the beginning of the text was the name he paints under. I held it up so that I could read it and saw the name Banksy, which I thought strange. “Banksy,” I said. He nodded. “Sorry, I've never heard of you.” He looked at me as if I was joking and seeing that I wasn't began to laugh. He went on to assure me that he is famous. I told him that I had a brother-in-law who was a professional artists but wasn't famous. He asked for his name saying he might know him. I laughed and replied that it was unlikely as he died some time ago. His name, was Michael Budd and had he lived would be in his 60s. “I think I do know him.,” he said, as he looked at his phone. “Did he help other artist?” Although I thought it an odd question I replied,“No, he worked in a studio in High Holborn.” “I know Holborn,” he exclaimed. Still thinking about his strange name I said could he spell it for me as I would like to Google it when I got home. He then spoke quite solemnly saying that he'd never puts anything on Google, but what's on there is put on by other people. We talked some more about this and that. I mentioned that I was a writer and have been published, but not famous. He said he was a writer too. Then he got up and said he had to go or else he'll miss his train. He took hold of my hand and shook it. “It's been lovely talking with you,” he said. He then walked around the table and lent forward and said in my ear that he's a spray can artist. I laughed. “Oh, you paint graffiti,” I said. He looked momentarily shocked, then laughed. “No, I'm an artist.” Then we shook hands again. He paused for a moment and smiled before he disappeared into the crowd. Well that passed the time. I looked at my watch, it was time for me to go. I must remember to Google his name, Banksy or was it Bansky? And I bet he's not really famous, I thought, as I finished my beer. I left the pub, made my way to platform 11 and boarded the train home to Inverness.
    The End

Written by Christine Rolffe-Budd from Evanton in the Highlands of Scotland.  She is part of a creative writing circle in Dingwall called the Ross-Shire writers and their works have been published.
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