EDitorial ± 31-May-2007
Antony Gormley's Another Place, Crosby
A Thursday in middle England, a magic road, a glimpse of the future. Buildings straight out of Dan Dare, immaculate near-empty carriageways, hydrogen fuelled automobiles, jetpacks, and a Wimpy dinner in pill form at the Norton Canes services. This'd be the Midland Expressway, aka the M6 toll, all yours for four of your English pounds. Try it: you won't regret it.
Exit onto M62, take M57 to Switch Island and look out for the brown tourist sign labelled "Antony Gormley's Another Place". Drive up and down the Burbo Bank Road, past a mysterious Titanic blue plaque, and head into an unpromising narrow road to park in an equally dodgy looking car park.
Wot no cast-iron figures yet? Through the dunes, there they are, some are near, some are far (flexing my rhyming muscles in prep for the Ip-Art poetry slam). Welcome to Crosby Beach, home to a ton of metal men made by that Angel Of The North chappy.
My lot saw fit to play football with one of the hundred, dress him in a stripy cardigan, and sit on his shoulders. But these soldiers have done it all and seen it all, from Germany to Norway to Belgium: they're unhumiliatable, in my bid for a new Collins entry. They stand impassive, naked, staring like the Gang Show into the distant horizon, waiting for their ship to come in.