postcards of everything
We all know the story, you go to a museum show, let’s say Gauguin for the sake of argument, you love what you see, who wouldn’t, the man’s a genius, you’ve got one or two favourites and you want to do something about it. Some people turn to crime. They form a gang, one of them works on staff at the museum, they wait a couple of weeks, then break in at night through the back, trip the alarm system, cut the canvas from its stretcher, roll it up, stuff it down their pants, then it’s balaclavas back on, racing through the building to the Datsun out front, hang on, Ned’s forgotten something, damn it, I told you he was no good, don’t screw with me man, I’ve had enough of your bossing me about, Ned come on, weeeeeeeeeeaw, I said NED COME ON, weeeeeeeeeeeaw, for Christ’s sake, everyone out, blam blam, aaaaaaaaargh, Jack are you okay, sure, I’m, blam blam, quick, the security guard’s got a gun, Jack, can you hear me, this is the police, come out with your hands up, I hereby sentence you to fourteen years hard labour in Sing Sing. Others just buy some postcards. These are ours.