Charity begins at home

Walking down Belfast's Great Victoria Street today (which is probably the windiest, and the busiest, street in Ireland) during my lunch hour, and all of a sudden I see them. Loads of the fuckers. The professional charity headlockers. They are probably the most annoying dickheads in the world, after Westlife of course.

You know who I mean. The young 'uns who work for Oxfam or Save the Children, who carry clipboards and wear those fluorescent bodywarmer type things, and who Joe Public generally dread to see when they're late getting back to work.

'Hello there, have you ever thought of...'

'No. Fuck off.'

'But you don't even know what...'

'Yes I do, you're gonna ask me to sign up for your charity'.

'Well sir, we ask a small donation...'

'Listen my friend. I'm on the lowest rung of the ladder in the Civil Service. People on the dole earn more than me. I'm lucky if I have my bus fare to work everyday. Where the fuck am I supposed to get the money to give you £15 a month?'

But then I thought I could kill two birds with one stone. When I'm stopped by them now, I sign up for a donation, giving the name of the head honcho in my department (yes, with a little digging, I got his home address) and asking them to send me out the direct debit forms. Not only does that cock get loads of junk mail from every Tom, Dick and Harry, but the melters that stop me in the street don't get their their commission either, because no payment has been settled.

Life is much sweeter when you're devious.