Banksy is actually a Good Bloke (Photo by Dave Etheridge-Barnes/Getty Images)

When we first moved from South London down to Brighton, in 2008, we rented a first-floor apartment with a shared lobby. One day a heavy duty cardboard tube appeared in the lobby, with my name and address on it. It looked a little battered, no doubt partly because it had been redirected from my old London address. I had no idea what it was nor, oddly, any real curiosity to find out. I suspected it was the latest instalment in my parentsās long term project to erase every trace of me from their Norfolk bungalow, as if my stuff was the principle source of the hoarded clutter they were drowning in.
Eventually I got around to carrying it upstairs. I prised open the plastic-cupped end, pulled out the rolled-up sheet of heavy-weight cartridge paper inside, laid it flat on the dining table and discovered that it was a Banksy. Not a print, an original ā spray-painted by the man himself. It was accompanied by an explanatory hand-written and signed letter. It was, I gradually realised, probably quite valuable. Today, it is almost certainly the most valuable thing I own, although nowhere near as valuable as āGame Changerā, which this week sold for a record Ā£14.4million at auction, with the artist donating the money to health charities.
Banksy had sent me this gift as a gesture of thanks, for having unwittingly nicked a joke of mine for his first little book, Existencillism. āIt is rather ironic,ā the joke goes, āthat the favourite drink of the homeless, should be a beer called Tennentāsā. The joke works better on stage, phonetically, than on the page. But it was a nice counterpoint to the image opposite, one of his most famous, a fallen winged angel, originally painted on a grimy brick recess in a wall in Old Street. The joke had been told to him by a mate, it turned out, who had no doubt forgotten where he heard it.
My wife gave me the book as a stocking filler, and when I found the joke I contacted him via the email address at the back. This was still relatively easy back then. He emailed back and apologised and later we spoke briefly on the phone and arranged to meet, in a cafĆ© bar opposite Herne Hill station, but like the shy woodland creature he is, something must have startled him and he changed his mind. We never met, and Iām really quite relieved about that. He works better for me, as for everyone else, as a slightly magical figure, like something from a Russian fairy tale, a phantom that might steal your best horse and ride it into a sweat at night before returning it to your stable.
I mention all this because Banksy has emerged as a kind of hate figure for those afflicted by Cultural Cringe. The conviction that we are an irredeemably philistine people is largely a Remainer syndrome ā how can you just walk away from croissants by the Seine? ā but by no means exclusively. So, before I come, not to defend Banksy per se but perhaps to urge a sense of proportion to those convulsed with shame, I want you to understand why I might think that whatever else he is, Banksy is a Good Bloke. Because it really is extraordinary how many people seem to think heās such a wanker.
His latest outrage was to win a very dubious popularity contest, when he really should know better. A company called Art Supplies had commissioned a survey of the āmost popularā artists in all the countries in the world, as determined by Google searches. And to our eternal shame, it appears, number one in the UK was the Bristolian wall-botherer himself. Not just in the UK, to be fair, but in France (what? Butā¦ butā¦ croissants! By the Seine!) and in Japan and Russia.
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