It was a beautiful sunny Saturday in July 1998. It was the day before the Tour de France cycle race in Ireland and I was driving across the Wicklow Gap on a smooth, newly-tarred road. The road had been specially improved for the historic occasion to impress our European neighbours and to foster tourism in the scenic Garden of Ireland.
This was the way roads should be, I thought. This was the way to travel. There was absolutely no danger of the visiting super-cyclists picking up punctures or falling into potholes on this wonderful stretch of mountain road. Congratulations to Wicklow County Council.
After travelling a short distance, I came across an worrying sight. There was graffiti all over the place. Every 100 yards there were abusive four-letter words daubed on the sleek tarmacadamed road. Some anarchists were determined to get their message across about what they thought of this State. Their views were painted in huge letters which couldn't be missed. They knew the event would be televised to millions of people throughout Europe and what a wonderful opportunity to get their views across to this mass audience.
Scrawled messages
Further on, I had to slow down. Council workers were frantically spraying tar over the painted manifestos. They worked through the night obliterating the scrawled messages. By the time the riders came across the Gap the next morning there wasn't a trace of graffiti. I watched the race on television and not a comma or a full stop was in sight. The State's reputation had been saved. But it had been a close thing.
Yes, graffiti artists will always be with us. Their handiwork is usually found on the backs of toilet-doors or on white-washed walls, sometimes signed by a gentleman named Kilroy, an artist of incredible low wit and master of bi-location. But such writing can be clever, witty, and at times quite literary, often showing quite an insight into the human condition. Scrawled ramblings can also be found in graveyards. Some of these people even follow their enemies to the grave by aerosoling some uncomplimentary remarks on tombstones. The theory that you don't speak evil of the dead is a myth.
Some people simply have to get things off their chests and into the public arena. Are they frustrated politicians, journalists or rejected letters-to-the-editor folk? They have something to say, and by gum, they are going to get their view across in the most aggressive way possible. But we don't know who they are. They are never caught. They are literally ghost writers who never leave a by-line (except Kilroy, of course).
These people are also blessed with superb eye-sight, as much of their work is done under the cover of darkness, on moonless nights. This sometimes results in words being misspelt, which can add a bit of humour to the scrawlings. It must be galling for the culprit to see the flaw in his work in the cold light of dawn. To hear the public laugh at his pathetic endeavours must be deflating to the ego.
Millions of pounds
The graffiti fraternity - those people with enormous chips on their shoulders - cost local authorities millions of pounds every year. The councils are always struggling to keep up with the activities of these attention-seekers. They cannot defeat them. The more they clear up, the quicker it appears again. They are a cunning breed. They seem to like the challenge. What are they trying to prove? What satisfaction do they get out of their nocturnal activities. Is it the thrill of giving the V-sign to society? Do they think they are changing the world?
I have heard of some cities designating certain walls for graffiti in the hope that this will reduce the damage, but this innovative step, while meeting with some success, hasn't gone anywhere near putting an end to the army of scribblers out there. These artists prefer to daub "unofficial" walls. They probably get a bigger buzz out of their activity when it is illegal. There is the thrill of avoiding capture. It becomes a daredevil game.
Worldwide species
And it is not just in Ireland that they operate. They are a worldwide species, always looking for notoriety, trying to make an impact. They are exhibitionists who enjoy making a nuisance of themselves, just like those who make costly bogus calls to the fire brigade or marine rescue service, just to cause upset and confusion. They like to make an impact in a perverted sort of way.
I read recently of a graffiti artist who has really made it big. Even the BBC has done a programme on him. For more than four decades, Hong Kong graffiti fanatic Tsang Tsouchoi has been writing Chinese characters on big slabs throughout this former British colony - on everything from flyover pillars and bus stops to electricity substations and walls. There's the occasional obscenity, but mostly his scrawl makes no sense. His writing has been displayed in Thailand among the exhibits of the world-touring "City on the Move" exhibition, staged by a Belgian museum. Tsang's handwriting - which many local Chinese find ugly - also adorns the clothes designed by a top local fashion designer and an array of items such as lampshades.
He has showered abuse on Britain's Queen Elizabeth and his brush has also referred to political personalities including Sun Yat-sen, the founder of modern China, and Chiang Kai-Shek.
Carrying two shopping bags containing brushes and paints, Tsang heads off every day from his flat to different districts to do his graffiti. He has been detained by police countless times, usually only to be released later. They have also sent him to a mental hospital at least twice.