I still remember my visit to Dismaland. How could I forget it? Therapy doesn't seem to be helping.

It was raining, bleak, I'd never been to Weston-super-Mare before. I asked a local, "Is it supposed to be like this?"

"They leave the dead donkeys where they fall," came the reply.

"That's not what I asked, but thank you, love."

"I'm not your love! she said, stepping over a donkey carcass.

"No, I'm sure you're not anyone's love."

It was so difficult to enter the Dismaland park, it took ages, the entrance blocked with free cardboard art. We were slipping and sliding, clambering up this hill of, at best, mediocre but appropriately priced free stencil art.

Once we reached the summit, we slid down on our arses, through the entrance. It was at this point the Dismal stewards started spitting at us. Inside, you could barely make out the attractions and art, as they were obscured by even more free stencil art, resting before their journey to ebay.

Wiping some spit from my eyes, I caught sight of the Weston-super-Mare fire chief arguing with, I presume, Paul Insect, yelling that the whole place was a huge tinder box (like your mother), a pyre, and how the whole place could go up at any moment.

Paul just laughed and lit up a massive cigar, puffing on it a few times before telling the fire chief that he knew people on the local Council, and how with just one phone call he could have the fire station closed down. He then placed a big and colourful animal mascot head over his own and walked away, coughing on cigar smoke as he went; the fire chief left raging in his own piss.

It was at this point I noticed the visitors had begun picking up huge armfuls of free cardboard art to take home, convinced that they'd won the jackpot, that Banksy, contrary to years of previous behaviour, must've gone mental and started giving away his artwork. 

Suddenly I heard a commotion coming from one of the toilets marked "office". Hearing the unmistakable sound of a middle-aged man crying in Bristolian, I knocked on the side of the portaloo and said, "You alright, my lover?"

The crying intensified.

I said, "Worse things happen at sea, mate."

The crying now became wailing.

"You're a sensitive sod, aren't ya, bud?"

A quivering voice shouted back, "They don't get it, they just don't get it!"

I said, "I know, mate, I know........'ere, do you think there's any chance I could have a free canvas worth lots of money?"

I could go on, but the passengers are getting shirty and want this bus moving.

Anyway, Dismaland, good times, awful memories.

Good luck with whatever you plan to do with your free cardboard art.

Do the cardboards sell for more or less than the canvases? Is it archival cardboard? Anyone know how long these things last? Would be concerned about deterioration. Any framing suggestions? Will Pest Control COA these?