The Ramsgate Vaping Militia

A camera somewhere in Oregon was sending images of cranks and the certifiably insane toting the kind of weapons the British government couldn’t afford to equip the army with. Apparently the whole thing revolved around them not being happy about something. Or their mutual love of camping in snow? Clare hadn’t got a clue to be honest, and cared even less. What she knew was one thing – if it was a legitimate form of protest for Americans then it was bloody well good enough for the vapers of Ramsgate.

A plan formed in the part of her mind that sat between the bit devoted to watching Jeremy Kyle and the section for deciding what delivery meal to have on Friday night. The TPD was coming. She wasn’t quite sure if it was an injection or the paramilitary wing of the NHS…but she was adamant that it was bad. “Takin’ our bleedin’ right to do what we want,” she’d exclaim to anybody on the settee during advert breaks. Rights such as picking a fight in Primark by blowing clouds at the till, failing at vape tricks in KFC and pretending her juice delivery hadn’t arrived (even though Jim had signed for it).

Their mate Barry has a catapult, she reasoned. Not one of those things that kids have, Bazza’s one could take the coconut clean off a rigged stand at the travelling fair. Jim had an obscene collection of chef knives. A hoard that was stupid for the number in total, the size of some and the fact that he only ate crisp sandwiches. Finally, her mate Josie’s 27yr-old had an air rifle and he’d got a load of practice shooting at cats. Ramsgate Town Council wouldn’t know what’d bloody well hit it – they could stage their very own armed militia occupation. Stuff the TPD, the fact that they close at 12 every day and Malcolm sodding Wilkinson and his mace. She’d show them. She’d show them all.

Of course, Clare had received the same opportunities every vaper had been given to negate the need for direct action. Down the Vale Tavern, she’d been asked to:

• Talk to her MP – “They’re all corrupt ain’t they. It’ll be a waste of time.”
• Write to her MEP – “Sod that, they put ‘em in the bin.”
• Sign the petitions – “I did one but I can’t be bovvered with the rest. There’s too many. Why didn’t they just have one for ***** sake?”

Yep, Clare had the same chances but she reckoned that someone else would sort it all out for her. It was their fault, whoever “they” were. “They’d” cocked up well and truly by not stopping this TPD whatever it is – “probably because they were too busy with their stoopid petitions or sumfink.”

“If you want to get sumfink done propa,” she shouted across at Jim, “you ave to do it your bloody self. That’s why we’re gonna take it to the council.” Jim brushed breadcrumbs and the remains of some Walkers Cheese & Onion from his stomach and nodded. He’d not heard a word she’d said but after all these years of marriage he knew that any other response usually ended up with one of them explaining to the police why the other was sitting in the back of an ambulance.

“I’m gonna sort it out tomorra. Or maybe at the weekend. Or maybe someone else will do it.”

“Yeh, someone else will probably do it.”