STUMBLING OUT THE DARK CAVE OF LIVERPOOL Street Station on to a bright sunny Bishopgate we head east for Commercial Road and immediately run into Minty, a SKELETOR hopelessly in love with his closest friend: Frida. She is suffering from bad dreams of Brexit and family disagreements about the socialist agenda. The walls call out our soon to be real foolishness. Quaker street yells her prediction ‘YOU‘RE FUCKED’ with a vibrant green over-scrawl... It isn’t long before a full blown row has broken out on the bisecting paths across Brick Lane. On Grimsby Street a blue lipped Pete Doherty land-lubber pouts his disdain, calling out to the pink lipped King of Cheshire Street. Their shouts ‘THE KEY IS NOT A KEY’ gather the boundless forces of love and colour, to strike at the heart of the red white and blue monster stalking the streets. Strangers whisper to passers by words of encouragement ‘LOOK AFTER YOURSELF’ and pull back the curtain on the Panto spirit of the media circus ‘I’M AN IDIOT. WHAT’S YOUR EXCUSE’. The colours and patterns spiral out of control and we pass in and out of crowds in a crescendo of self–replicating Jeans. Displaying a kind of sorcery like Sci-Fi level mastery (the only plausible reason for his crackling energy and multitude of sizes). He photocopied at a incalculable rate close to that of his fellow space traveller Grace, who floats around in a magenta bubble with a puff on her cigarette. Michel sniffs the passive cigarette smoke and their third eyes glitch. A right pair of likely neon savages blink, blinking their eyelashes of truth in waves of friendly goodbyes.