with the idea of shooting the private parts off reproduction classical statuary in the gardens of executive properties in the Home Counties - although it would be better to do it in one's own garden where the likelihood of prosecution and disgrace would be lessened.
I conjure up the following scene: a plethora of brand specialisation and monetising optimisation team leaders and their pardners, the men all in loafers, and the murmur of office chatter on a summer's evening on the arboured patio of a Mock-Tudor mansion in Bumsuck Avenue, Wivenhoe. Polite laughter, spritzers and bowls of salsa on a hostess trolley waiting to be heaped onto the still-sizzling burgers. The house, incidentally, has a brass plate on the gatepost on which the the legend "The Limes" (pronounced with an S before the L) appears.
From a thicket a couple of hundred yards off comes the discharge phut of an air rifle. A split second later the crack of impact, a little puff of cement dust, and a fragment of Zeus's foreskin spins, whistles indeed, through the air and plops into the chili and red-onion jam.
Exaltation.
I suppose one would be charged with criminal damage, firing an air weapon recklessly and generally being a menace to society and that, rather like that silly man who was caught having sex with a bicyle, ridicule would follow.
However, such flights of the imagination are to be encouraged.
