Far be it from me to suggest judicial amputation of their right hand, but taggers – that useless lot of cockroaches – when caught in the act should be beaten repeatedly on the soles of their feet with a cane until they cry and have their faces stained purple with indelible ink. What they get up to – that visual pollution they feel compelled to inflict on the world – is conceived in the same part of their moronic shrunken minds that might at some other moment drive them to smash in a phone booth. To suggest there is anything creative in the act is an affront to anyone, dead or alive, who in the broadest sense has ever felt the need to engage the creative process with the desire to communicate an idea or an emotion.