I like London. I like going down on the train, visiting my friends, bemusedly stand on the left side of the tube escalator just to see the horror on their faces at the thought that I might get in the way of the hurried, briefcase-toting bourgeoise. I like the buzz of the metropolis, the endless art galleries, a Pret on every corner.
And then, after about a day or so, the cracks in my newly imagined London life start to show. I’ll see a rat on the tube, spend all my cash at M&M world, think about rent prices.
But the kicker, the real kicker, is that instead of finding solace in a pub, you can end up spending five whole British pounds to be served something that looks like this.
https://www.instagram.com/p/B5QcI8EHEyt/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link
The account, shitlondonguinness, demonstrates that the Brits are still out to destroy the Irish and their culture. From no foam to half a glass of foam, from murky, grey pints, to tops that’d make a trypophobic nauseous, the Instagram demonstrates the very worst of London.
Now, you’re probably wondering how I have the gall to suggest that this is art. And the pints themselves can’t be considered art, unless you’re considering the creative ability to manage to make a pint of Guinness look like the world’s most heinous coke float. But art can expose the ugliness that underpins our society.
There is a strange sense of community in shitlondonguinness. A run through the account shows that individuals share their traumatic pints. And isn’t that what art is about? Coming together to declare that a pint deserves the bin.
There is a beauty to the account, too. Like my trips to London, I look at shitlondonguinness and begin to appreciate the good things in life when I’ve got them. When I see a perfectly pulled pint, I value the beauty of not having to lug through 8 inches of foam. Sometimes you’ve got to be exposed to the ugly to appreciate the beauty.
Verdict: Coming together to rag on terrible pints? It’d be a crime not to call it art.
