I’ve mentioned before a chap in England who used to show up at the local council offices with a muck-spreader every time the council hiked the rates. Painting their windows with sewage might not have reduced his rates bill, but it sure as hell told the petty fascists inside that there wasn’t very much love for them outside.
So cut now to Whangarei and to a chap called Alan Agnew who’ was told – told? the bastards are insisting! – that he must – MUST! – fill out his date of birth on the council’s bloody form to register his dog.
Over and over he’s been told, and over and over he’s told the bastards it’s none of their goddamned business, until finally Alan Agnew snaps: he shoots the dog and dumps it on the council’s steps. Not much good for the dog, but it sure as hell made Alan feel a little better.
We all do mad things under pressure, and those perfect bastards at council offices know how to drive the blood pressure up.
So short of muck-spreading and dog-shooting, what to you do to release your anger when the cardigan-wearing petty fascists are on the march? Come on, I know you’ve got some stories to tell.
I could easily do with trying one or two myself at the moment.