Dirty Protest
Back in the day, before I lived in a City that is somewhere approaching a civilised society (where, touch wood, the council have been pretty good so far… But that could change, as my new flat does need a Wheelie Bin…), I live in Wakefield and as such was at the mercy of Wakefield Metropolitan District Council (hereafter referred to as ‘Cunts’).

Not only that, I was also at the mercy of my landlord who, after approximately 0.1 seconds of me moving in, decided that he was going to convert the cellar. Joy.

As a result of the ongoing building work (he was doing it with a couple of his mates, and I was beginning to seriously doubt the structural integrity of the house), our erstwhile lovely garden had been turned in to a little mini-tip all of our very own. Bricks, glass, lino, tiles, carpet, pipe, flex – you name it, it was there. At the bottom of the garden stood two wheelie bins, which were meant to provide for the rubbish needs of 6 people.

Now then. The Cunts send ‘round some men (or Goblins, I can never be sure) in yellow coats and a big van once a week to empty the wheelie bins. However, the Cunts have deemed thus to the Goblins: “If the bin’s lid is open by even an inch, the bins is too full and you may not collect it.”

Herein lies the problem, fans. The builders were using our bins too, so on one week our bin lids were open by a fraction. And the bin men did not collect our rubbish.

Frantic calls to the Cunts were made. Threats may have been issued. Strong words were definitely exchanged. Eventually, an agreement was made that they would put a note out that our rubbish could be picked up the following week.

Which is wasn’t. Evidently the note didn’t make it, or the bin men didn’t read it – which, frankly, I can’t entirely rule out. The (now festering rubbish) was not collected for three further weeks, and enough was eventually enough.

A plan was hatched. A van was borrowed.

In the dead of night, my housemates and I dressed in black, loaded the van with the bags of refuse, and drove up to the Cunt’s offices at about 2am. Ninja-like, we leapt out of the van, and unloaded the rubbish on to their front doorstep. We also left a note, saying “Dear Cunts. This is no longer our problem. Please dispose of this as you will.”

It sounds amazingly brave and stick it to the man-ish… But we moved out of the house 2 days later and I came to London.

So that’s the story of my one and only dirty protest…
( Devil_In_Tights the *real* DiT!, Wed 1 Aug 2007, 10:54, Reply)