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Kevin Reid
Five years ago I had no choice but to shake my inbred cynicism, learn social skills and become a hairy artisan.
Masks of lycra were worn, BMX’s bought, humiliation rituals undertaken, dog suits made, fine wines over-consumed and accent diluted to a big Sean nice-shitty. I have been a lonely cock, a gang banger, a gallery hair dresser, a spandex spud punnered rocker and an ass-waxed cowboy chauffeur. Crimson tide nuclear-fuelled compartments, stoked with middle-aged eccentrics have become clean as the ghostly halls of art establishments, as I switch from grease monkey to art flunky. In August 2004 I gathered together a crack squad of creative bampots and set about seeing what we could do to the gigantic Spike Island in Bristol. Allowed to stay in the gallery 24/7 for a week, 1,000 yards of CLS and 150 OSB boards were transformed into a fully-functioning utopian modular community with sleeping quarters. There was an event weekend. Deejays played from the Nelson WWII watch tower, bands performed on the mini stage, ale was served from a pick up truck, a cinema showed transvestites, flame-throwing children and hairy beasts and a couple celebrated there fortieth wedding anniversary. Most recently I travelled the USA highways with the Prairie Oysters, a self-proclaimed darts team Bon...
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