Your Re-Election, Councillor Davis, Fight For It

Dear Councillor Davis,

Elections are drawing near. It’s time to up your game. It’s time to listen to Uncle Rick. Most of all: it’s time to fuck shit up.

Your politicking has become stale, Jeremy. These days, no one is interested in someone writing letters of complaint to the municipality on their behalf. No one is bothered about letters to the editor complaining about the fire department driving over their cat. No one cares. No one. Not one.

There needs to be a shake-up in approach; things need to become more direct and in-your-face. Younger voters need to be attracted and acting the fogey ain’t gonna cut it no more. Shit needs to be fucked up and you need to do the fucking. Allow me to suggest how you can achieve this goal.

When I was a youth, my father was made ambassador to Mexico. We moved around the country quite a bit on account of being kidnapped on numerous occasions, but my father was based in Mexico City. I recall a small town I spent a year or so in as a detainee. The kidnappers on this occasion were a friendly bunch who never denied me my freedom of movement, but ensured I never went to the police by threatening to smash my Ipod and Gameboy with a hammer if I did.

There was a councillor named Jose Antonio in this town who had ruled the roost for a Gadaffi-esque 20 years. The mayor was essentially a figurehead and could often be seen scuttling after the councillor, carrying his briefcase for him. The people were afraid to stand up to this tyrant and paid excessive taxes without so much as a peep of complaint. Worst of all, every Saturday the councillor demanded a lovely home-made greeting card be manufactured by every resident and delivered through his warehouse of a letterbox. Any man or woman whose card was insufficiently glittered or colourful would be dragged from their home in the middle of the night and never seen again. People blamed the high level of bronchitis and lung cancer on the amount of glitter and shiny sprinklings that were breathed in by residents on a weekly basis.

One day, a man emerged from the crowd as cards were delivered to the letter box. He was squat, beer-bellied and half-naked. Below the waist he wore a leotard and above the neck a striking gold Mexican wrestling mask. His heavily oiled chest and arms reflected the sun to such an extent that those nearest to him were forced to observe him from the corner of their eyes.

“Antonio!”, he called. “I have made a greeting card for you! It reads: come and fight me, nipple to nipple!”

The crowd was shocked and fell back from the man.

“Antonio!”, he called again. “Come out and fight! Your mother is a hairless cat and your grandmother smells of cheap tequila!”

The gates to Councillor Antonio’s palace slowly swung open.

Out strode the councillor, followed by a retinue of heavily, imaginary armed men. (I must explain at this point that the region was very poor and could not afford real guns. The councillor had banned any civillian from owning imaginary guns and often turned many residents’ homes inside out searching for them)

“Die, worm!”, he called, as he signalled for the men behind him to open fire.

“Peeyooo! Peeyooo! Dadadadadada! Bang! Peeyooo!”, they shouted, as they pointed their hands and arms at the stranger in the shape of what they believed guns would look like.

He stood unmoved as the imaginary smell of gunpowder and smoke cleared.

“Fall over! You’re dead now!”, shouted the councillor.

“No I’m not!”, the stranger replied. “Most of the bullets missed and hit innocent bystanders (at this, numerous in the crowd fell over and did a very good job of pretending to be crossfire victims) and anyway, I have imaginary bullet armour on!”

The councillor’s jaw dropped. He had never encountered a foe of such skill before.

“Call in the imaginary air force! I want an air strike!”, he screamed.

His retinue looked at each other and shifted their feet uncomfortably. One amongst them eventually piped up.

“Your councillorship…erm…you um…you disbanded the imaginary air force in your last annual budget speech. You deemed it to be too much of a drain on your coffers…”

The councillor’s eyes bulged at this. “Well then go and sort him out yourselves. I want him skinned alive!”

The councillor’s burly retinue stepped forward brandishing imaginary knives. The blades obviously did not glitter sharply in the sun unless you had a decent command of imagination.

An imaginary knife fight ensued. The stranger danced amongst them, wielding his imaginary katana blade with deadly precision. Whenever he was supposedly wounded by one of the retinue’s blades, he would cry out “You missed!” or “That was only a little scratch”.

Eventually the stranger was left standing, surrounded by the bodies of the councillor’s bodyguards. The guards didn’t do a very good job of pretending to be dead, mainly because they’d never really had much opportunity to practice it in the past.

“Now, Antonio, come and fight me like a man!”, he called.

Councillor Antonio stepped forward and in one swift motion, whipped his suit off to reveal a pre-greased body with only a pair of blood-red speedos to maintain his dignity.

The two men rolled around on the ground in a greasy mess, each trying futilely to grip the other. All who witnessed it were transfixed – even the crossfire victims and bodyguards forgot they were supposed to be dead. After a time, and shortly before the whole affair became a little bit too homoerotic for most people’s taste, the stranger stood victorious with a semi-hard-on above the councillor.

“No longer shall you play tyrant, Antonio. No longer shall you make the people glitter to your will. No longer shall you shoot imaginary bullets at people on a whim. This town is for the people!”

“Viva sexy Stranger!”, the people cheered, as they lifted the stranger on their shoulders before dropping him on account of his greasiness.

From that day on, the town was a town of peace. Every year the people would come out and reenact what came to be known as ‘The Fight of The Oily Stranger’. The town very quickly became a popular European gay resort and rainbow banners would stream from every building. Children and grown men played in the streets and everyone knew the words to George Michael’s entire back catalogue.

So you see, Councillor Davis, how great things can be achieved by standing out from the crowd. By being the man to stand up and be counted. By buying a Mexican wrestling mask, a bottle of extra virgin olive oil and grappling Mayor Wayile to the deck.

Go get ’em Jeremy.

Yours in politicking,

R. Dagless (MD)

PS: Spar on Rink Street have a special on olive oil – 5 gallons for the price of 3.

Editors Notes: They also had a great special on wine – buy three 750 ml bottles and get a 1.5 l for free in case you need to go that route Jeremy!

The following two tabs change content below.

• Bio
• Latest Posts

Alan Straton

Chief Cook, Bottle Washer and Broom Mechanic at MyPE

Passionate about Port Elizabeth and definitely NOT packing for Perth. Alan's ethos is epitomised in the words of Nelson Mandela; "I have fought against white domination and I have fought against black domination. I have cherished the idea of a democratic and free society. If need be, it is an ideal for which I am prepared to die." See more articles by Alan.

Latest posts by Alan Straton (see all)

• SAFRA Marks 15 Years and Nearly 500,000 Moving Quotes - 19 October 2026
• SAFRA Unveils Exciting Website Upgrade for Easier Moving Quotes - 19 October 2026
• SAFRA Launches Powerful New Furniture Volume Calculator - 19 October 2026
• What Parents Need to Know about Polio - 19 October 2026
• Rodent Checks Should Include the Parked Car, Says Gqeberha Pest Control Operator - 19 October 2026