The Tate Liverpool

I feel as if my formal review style  lends to Patrick Bateman reviewing Huey Lewis and The News. Minus the excitement of wielding an axe  and the dance moves to boot. Now, onto the review.

The similarities between the Tate Liverpool and its older sibling in London is they both reside by water and house something that I just cant bring myself to oscillate my chin at — no matter how long I stare (it’s not like I’ve tried). Although, unlike it’s London counterpart, I didn’t have the privilege of a Burger King within a five-minute walking distance. I suppose the etchings by William Blake will more than suffice. As I imagine an overpriced chicken filet and decor carrying more artistic integrity in it’s shameless plugging of the ‘Burger King’ on a food tray.


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