They Put Me Between Lager and Life Insurance
Down the Banksy interviewed by Niamh Rourke for Civic Damage
NIAMH ROURKE: Siobhán McDonnell, also known as Down the Banksy—
SIOBHÁN McDONNELL: Known by my mother as “will you please not get arrested before your auntie’s birthday.”
NIAMH: Your anti-racism piece — We Know Who’s English by the Colour of Their Shirts, Not the Colour of Their Skin — is now being shown during the World Cup. On television. In stadium packages. Alongside adverts for beer, banks, betting-adjacent apps and financial services. How does that feel?
SIOBHÁN: Like seeing your rosary beads used to secure a VIP lanyard.
NIAMH: That sounds complicated.
SIOBHÁN: It is complicated. Which is annoying, because I prefer righteous simplicity. I made a thing on a wall because someone said something racist in a pub and everyone did that little British shuffle where they pretend not hearing it is a peace process. It was not designed to sit between lager and a man in a fleece telling you to consolidate your pension.
NIAMH: But now it does.
SIOBHÁN: Now it does. And I’m not going to pretend I hate that. I hate plenty. I hate racism. I hate civic cowardice. I hate the phrase “national conversation.” I hate when art gets its teeth filed down and everyone calls that reach. But I don’t hate millions of people seeing the sentence. That sentence can go where it likes. It’s got work to do.
NIAMH: The broadcast version is much cleaner than the original.
SIOBHÁN: The original was not clean. The original was a reprimand. Black paint, bad temper, brick dust, no design committee. It was a Liverpool fan writing about England, which already tells you something. We are not exactly out here getting misty-eyed over Three Lions commemorative bunting. But there is a line, isn’t there? You can be allergic to flag nonsense and still know racism is poison.
NIAMH: So the original was not patriotic?
SIOBHÁN: No. It was anti-racist. That’s different. It wasn’t saying “come on England.” It was saying, “Don’t pretend you don’t know what belonging looks like when you’ve been judging it by shirts your whole life.” Football fans understand symbolic identity perfectly. Colour, badge, song, scarf, history, chosen loyalty, inherited loyalty, all of it. Then suddenly some gobshite wants to act like skin is the only category they can read. No. I’m giving that down the banks.
NIAMH: The campaign version adds many hands, different skin tones, club shirts, national colours. It has become warmer.
SIOBHÁN: It has become sponsor-friendly. Let’s use the correct theological term.
NIAMH: And does that bother you?
SIOBHÁN: Yes. Also no. That’s the irritating bit. The hands are beautiful. The message holds. I’m not made of stone. Seeing kids point at it in a fan zone — that got me. I had a little moment. Then immediately there was an advert for premium lager and I recovered.
NIAMH: What is lost when protest becomes campaign?
SIOBHÁN: The accusation. Protest points at someone. Campaign points at everyone and says, “Let’s do better.” Which is fine, sometimes. But my original was not “let’s do better.” It was “you know better.” There’s a difference. One invites improvement. The other removes the alibi.
NIAMH: That sounds very Catholic.
SIOBHÁN: I was educated by women who could make a corridor feel like Judgement Day. Of course it’s Catholic. Not churchy Catholic. Not lace-and-incense nostalgia. Catholic as in: you had a duty, you failed it, don’t stand there blinking like consequence is a new subject.
NIAMH: Are you worried the World Cup version makes it too easy?
SIOBHÁN: A bit. It lets people agree with anti-racism as a vibe. Nobody dislikes a nice poster with different hands holding shirts. Very moving. Very inclusive. Very shareable. But the actual test is whether you still speak when your mate says something foul after two pints and everyone wants the evening not to become “political.”
NIAMH: And your work is political?
SIOBHÁN: My work is a public telling-off. People keep calling me a street artist. I’m not. Streets are just where the wall was. I’m a protest artist. I don’t decorate surfaces. I issue notices.
NIAMH: Did the World Cup people ask before adapting it?
SIOBHÁN: Eventually.
NIAMH: Eventually?
SIOBHÁN: There was a chain of events involving someone’s nephew, a screenshot, a diversity consultant, three emails with the word “activation,” and me asking whether the invoice had fallen down a grid. It was resolved.
NIAMH: Did you approve the final version?
SIOBHÁN: With amendments. I asked them not to make it look like a bank had discovered racism was bad in Q3. They failed, but less than they might have done.
NIAMH: That sounds like qualified approval.
SIOBHÁN: Everything worth doing is qualified approval. Purity is for people who never have to get anything onto a wall.
NIAMH: What did it feel like the first time you saw it on television?
SIOBHÁN: Awful. Amazing. Like being robbed by someone who donated the proceeds to a cause you believe in. I was sitting there with my tea, and suddenly there it was: my sentence, behaving itself, wearing deodorant, between beer and financial services. And I thought: there you go, girl. You escaped.
NIAMH: Escaped you?
SIOBHÁN: Escaped the wall. Escaped my bad mood. Escaped Liverpool, even. That’s when you know the work has legs. Terrible thing for an artist, really. You make something because you’re angry, and then it starts doing good without asking you how you feel about the typography.
NIAMH: Do you still consider it yours?
SIOBHÁN: The original is mine. The broadcast version is its well-behaved cousin with media training. Same family. Different shoes.
NIAMH: And if a beer company or bank uses it to make themselves look decent?
SIOBHÁN: Then they can start by being decent. I’m not against institutions repeating the right sentence. I am against them thinking repetition is absolution. You don’t get cleansed by proximity to a slogan. You get cleansed by conduct. And even then, I’ll want receipts.
NIAMH: What would you say to the people seeing it during the World Cup?
SIOBHÁN: Enjoy the football. Wear the shirt. Sing the song. Lose your mind over a corner if you must. But if you know someone is English when they put on the shirt, then you already know Englishness is not skin. So don’t pretend confusion. Don’t hide behind “just asking.” Don’t make the black lad prove what the white lad gets for free.
NIAMH: And to the sponsors?
SIOBHÁN: Pay your taxes, fund grassroots football, stop using working-class joy as brand wallpaper, and don’t put my art next to an advert for responsible drinking unless you’re ready for me to have thoughts.
NIAMH: Final question. Are you proud?
SIOBHÁN: Yes.
NIAMH: That sounded difficult.
SIOBHÁN: It was. I prefer contempt. Pride makes my face do things.
NIAMH: But you are proud.
SIOBHÁN: I’m proud the sentence travelled. I’m proud it kept enough of its spine. I’m proud some kid might see it and feel less like they’re being tolerated and more like the argument is already over. But I’m still going to say this: the wall version was the truth. The TV version is the translation.
NIAMH: And the translation?
SIOBHÁN: Useful. Handsome. Slightly overproduced. Needs more brick.