Friday, 30 May 2014

A Small Act Of Genteel Domestic Terrorism.

I recently found myself wandering the streets of Coventry once more in a vain attempt to pass the time. I avoided the cream cake emporium due to the unforseen circumstances i found myself in on my previous visit. I didn't think enough time had elapsed for my fuzzy CCTV photo to have been taken down from the 'Troublesome Customers' noticeboard, next to the 'Shoplifters / Vagabonds / Wanted' noticeboard in the staff room. Having had a shave and a haircut, returning me to my Tom Cruise good looks, i may have got away with it, but i didn't want to take the risk.

Since it wasn't Christmas and no family Birthdays were on the immediate horizon, i wandered the shop fronts in search of something, anything, to occupy my idle mind. Following a very agreeable coffee in a nice Italian coffee shop in the city centre that had no children in it, i was bored and as we all know, boredom leads to terrible, terrible acts... For i am now a wanted man.

I looked around. Clothes shops... No. Mobile Phone shops...No. I stared at the bland row upon row of shiny outlets owned by the Multi-National conglomerate corporation of  'Same Shit Different Logo Ltd,' with headquarters based in the tax free Virgin Islands and a CEO based in a £30m London town house in Belgravia with a holiday home in the Bahamas. I wondered just where it all went wrong for them... My inner Che Guevara surfaced and recoiled at the decadent west.

I wondered why the Inland Revenue and Her Majesties Customs and Excise negotiate tax agreements of a few millions, based on an income of Billions, whilst at the same time sending Bailiffs to recover small benefits over-payments to families who can't afford to repay. I wondered why we tolerate the fact that more and more food banks are required in this so called affluent nation. Day centres for the disabled and the vulnerable, the old and the poor, closing for the lack of funds.

A small act of domestic defiance and protest was in order. Nothing to trouble the Secret Service you understand, i don't want to end up in Guantanamo being force fed water through a blanket with a cattle prod up my jacksie, no thank you.

I hatched my dastardly plan. 'I am a domestic terrorist genius,' i thought to myself, but without the added heavy armaments, lethal attitude towards my fellow man, a balaclava or the actual terrorising of the general public, i'm not a lunatic.

I walked into a well known retail outlet that sells cheaply made items from poorly paid third world children and sells them at a massive mark-up price and then keeps the tax free profits. You know the type. My heart began to race, a trickle of sweat formed on my brow wondering if Kiefer Sutherland was about to jump from the trouser rack (waist sizes 32 to 38) and torture me using a biro, a CIA business card and a coat hanger, whilst simultaneously downloading the shop schematics to his PDA. (Keifer, they are called 'blueprints' you tit.)

I banished all thoughts from my mind... The time was now... Should i fail, i hoped my small cell of fellow urban Guerrillas would remember me for what i was about to do, until i remembered i haven't any fellow members. I was an army of one.

I deftly swapped the price tags from an expensive suit with that of a cheaper, logo'd pair of trousers... Not once, but twice.

My plan was a simple one. As far as i'm aware, UK law states that the marked price on an item is what it should be sold for, so i figure the next customer will bag a bargain and the store will lose around £16.38p. That's £16.38p back into the hands of the public where it belongs. Having set the trap, i left. As an added act of defiance against the state and it's greedy money masters, i left without calling the Police with a code-worded warning message. I'm sorry, but i'm trying to start a revolution here y'know.

Anyway, that'll teach 'em. With a few more acts such as this, i reckon i could deprive Mr Moneybags, CEO of the Same Shit Different Logo Company, of quite a few poolside gin and tonics. As such, with my new secret urban Guerrilla identity, my next post will come from my secret cave hidden in the Surrey hills, just outside of the M25 near Dorking.

Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter, and has just given away his identity... Bugger.