I never believe people when they say the football season is over. It’s not even that I think they’re mistaken, it’s that I think they’re lying. It is never over. Everyone knows this; we were born with an innate part of our brains dedicated to football. I, for one, try hard to suppress this.

So, when assured rather vehemently by my tube buddy Chris that it was, in fact, over, imagine my dismay when I woke up last Friday to find Ronaldo’s stupid, greasy, twatty face sneering up at me from the Newspapers with reports of being bought for a healthy sum that would put a serious dent in ‘third-world debt’.

The Times had a splendid photo of him, a copy of which was adorning the table by the lift at work. A few seconds to spare, a clear coast, hatred on my mind, pen in bag… Had an opportunity just presented itself to me?

I reached for my pen, smiled for the security camera and graffiti-ed the fuck out of his ugly mug.

I opted for the ‘classic face graffiti’ look. You know, devil horns, devil tail, a devil fork, stupid moustache… etc etc. I had a little chuckle to myself at my own joke (very cool) and put my pen away. I think I should have stopped there, but the lift hadn’t arrived yet. Still bored, full of hatred for the guy and unaware of this ‘when to stop’ that people keep telling me I should know, I got my pen back out of my bag and drew a speech bubble with the words “I blow goats” as the proud announcement inside.

The lift dinged open and I snuk inside, chest puffed out with pride at what I considered, even if I do say so myself, to be a heroic act. I got into work and twitted it. “Pictures, show us pictures!!” You all demanded. That’s right all of you. So I trotted off downstairs armed with my blackberry in order to give the crowds what they want, nay, demand.

Yeah, reception had taken it hadn’t they? Clearly someone was dissatisfied with my artwork, anyway. Wildly downhearted, I wondered to myself what to do. I asked the twits what they thought. “Give us pictures, O wise graffiti woman” they cried, single-mindedly desperate to share in this heroic act.

So I left work. I had plans to go to Tesco’s (dicks) and deface one of their newspapers then run out. “Yeah, great plan, I hate Tesco’s” I thought to myself. I walked past and looked in. There was no queue, the newspapers were right by the till and there was three members of staff who looked at me and immediately knew my plan. I’m sure they would have been behind me 100%, but a job’ a job, so I moved along.

I came across my favourite little newspaper shop. Oooooh, interesting. The perfect environment for my crime contrasted with my love (love? A bit strong?) for this shop. But, as I bought New Scientist and Time from them weekly, I claimed my hard-earned right to commit a crime on their property.

They had The Times right on the outside rack, Ronaldo’s face leering at each passer-by individually. I picked one up and subtly cased out the joint. No one in sight. For the second time that day, I did some art on Greasy-Toad-Boy.

At a crucial moment, a man walked from inside the shop towards the door. Towards me. Who was he? Did he work there? Was he going to come outside? So many questions. I wouldn’t like to say I was frozen with fear at that point, but decided that taking no action was probably the best move. Didn’t want to draw attention to myself any more than I already had done. The man strode over to the door and stopped right by me. I looked up at him, as innocently as I could muster. He looked at me, looked at the defaced paper, looked at the pen in my hand and left. Seriously, didn’t even blink. The guy didn’t give a shit. Phew. Although a more supportive reaction would have been nice, at least I didn’t have to explain myself (by explain myself I mean throw 20p at him and leggit).

So, I continued doing art on Ronaldo. When I had finished I put the newspaper back on the rack in full view. I balanced it on the separators, rather than placing it inside them and got out my blackberry. My weapon of choice in my proof-gathering quest. One photo, a close up, then I quickly left.

I know many of you wont want to look at his disgusting face and if you’ve recently eaten you might want to save looking for another time (unless you loved you food so much you want to see it again, that is). But here we go:

Greasy twat faceGreasy twat face

And a close up:

This guy is just grease, grease, greaseThis guy is just grease, grease, grease

And there begins my life of crime. More to come, I expect.

If this inspires just one kid to leave school to be a vigilante I’ll feel like I have helped the Dog-forsaken world.

That is all.


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