My brother and I both thought we could bring down society through the medium of writing graffiti on the walls of the near-derelict toilets in our local park.So serious were we in our mission, that we exchanged felt-tip pens and boxes of chalk that Christmas with knowing winks over the wrapping paper. Aside from the fact that we would be spending much of our free time hanging around public toilets, our plan would be utterly fool-proof.
Then, with the coast well-and-truly clear, we set about the fetid walls of the gents shithouse in Twyford Rec with words that would bring the very fabric of society to its knees.
"Your all gay benders."
And "R. Searle is a cunt-eyed homo."
That certainly told them, and we were all set to take our campaign further - the walls of the cricket pavilion, and the one small part of the Youth Club that hadn't been coated in anti-graffiti paint. That was us: hitting The Man right where it hurt.
Alas, our reign of terror as middle-class teenage anarchists was to be short-lived. This probably - and don't quote me on this - had something to do with the fact that we both signed our work. With our own names.
"The Police are all poofs, signed S. Duck" = Wrong.
PC Poofter came to our door and told us to stop. So we did.
Thanks to the bravery of the Boys in Blue, the small Berkshire village of Twyford was safe once again. But for how long?
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