Dismaland Dismal? Hardly. ‘Dismal’ concerns the dismal fact that every news outlet has shored up their miserable readership on the mere mention of ‘he who shall not be named’ while regurgitating picayune facts as if the target reader had a brain the size of a Raisinet. ‘Respected’ outlets including The Economist, The Guardian, Slate, The Atlantic, The New York Times, Juxtapoz and The BBC have needlessly subjugated billions of pixels to their journalistic will in order to cover what The Guardian’s Jonathan Jones has practically billed as the most “thin, threadbare and boring” show on the planet––although that’s not saying much.
I’ll just tell you instead of engaging your enthusiasm unnecessarily. Yet ANOTHER Dismaland Article will give the first, and likely the last––stripped of perky colorful vignettes of the dilapidated tract Dismaland sits upon, and fully deprived of any ‘live on the scene’ coverage––utterly worthless fustian diatribe on Dismaland.
It has been my profound lack of pleasure not to be able to avoid drafting this escape from ‘the escape from mindless escapism’
Please decline to read this and other pontificating, self-aggrandizing, desperately SEO cultivating texts that share little connection to Dismaland except for the pontificating, self-aggrandizing, obstensibly anti-commercial propagandist stance with the originality of an anvil concussion blow.
But you won’t listen, no one ever does. Perhaps I should make something up. Thrill at the incredible spectacle surrounding an event near a murky little beach across the pond! Experience the dismal extravaganza of missing out on the event of the century that only cost three pounds. Behold the spectre of Lazarides’ ire! Make the pilgrimage to where Brad Pitt bent the knee! Wed in the backdrop of an ironically distressing mock up of a non-ironically distressing mock up castle! Unfortunately, none of this is made up. Why should I want to make anything up? Life’s bad enough as it is without wanting to invent any more of it.
“I hope everyone from Weston will take the opportunity to once more stand in a puddle of murky water eating cold chips to the sound of crying children”–Banksy
Cardboard Fish Fingers?!
And don’t get me started on Ebay. Fake fish fingers for over 30 pounds? Imbecilic balloons for imbeciles, who want to be identified as imbeciles? Witness the least benightedly unintelligent lifeforms it gives me a headache simply to imagine. ‘He who shall not be named’ should simply encase excrement in cubes of formaldehyde and wait for them to circulate in exhibitions around the planet.
“I guess you’d say it’s a theme park whose big theme is – theme parks should have bigger themes”–Banksy
It has been my profound lack of pleasure not to be able to avoid drafting this escape from the escape from mindless escapism. I could calculate your chance of enjoying it, but you won’t like it. If you want to bother to think about considering a trip to Dismaland, pardon me for breathing. Just follow your heart to your own disillusionment. It’s your life. Life! Don’t talk to me about life.
(This article incorporates text liberally borrowed from Douglas Adams.)