Brutal Kisses

I spent Saturday night celebrating a good friend’s birthday on the very Brutalist roof of Peace Centre, a bleak expanse of mottled concrete interrupted somewhat haphazardly by a fitness corner, playground, barbecue pit, a scattering of benches and the occasional spindly potted plant, the roar of the F1 engines transmuted into ghostly sirens by the time it wafted up to us on the clear night air, like a distant apocalypse powerless against the forces of beer, black pepper chicken and conversation. It was great.

On the way to the party, this rather endearing hoarding (on either Paradiz Centre or the building just next to it) caught my eye.