Chuggers

It seems to be quite fashionable to hate chuggers these days. Well, you know what? Sometimes ‘fashionable’ isn’t a bad thing.

But surely any work for charity can only be a good thing, right? Well, no, actually. Consider this: If I were to sign up for one of these ‘take £3 out of my account every month’ things that the so-called ‘chuggers’ are trying to con you into, it would be a whole year of my payments before the charity got any financial gain from it. Put another way, it takes a years worth of one person’s payments to pay for the smug, bib-wearing hippie type to stand on the street harassing people. And most people cancel their payments after six months anyway.

‘Have you got a minute to talk?’ one said to me once, as I walked past. ‘No’ I replied. ‘DON’T YOU CARE THAT CHILDREN ARE BEING ABUSED?!’ she made a rather loud point of saying. Err…excuse me? Don’t come at me with your false ‘holier than thou’ attitude and try to make out that just because I don’t stop and talk to you I must be some child-abusing tyrant. For all you know, I could devote every spare minute of my time to helping those less fortunate than myself. And what makes you so perfect? If you’re so bothered about it all why don’t you do this for free? Or stop bothering people on the street, get a job in Woolworths and donate a percentage of your earnings to the charity that you are, apparently, so passionate about?

Today, as I was walking down the street minding my own business, as I often do, a young bib-wearing lady said to me, ‘You look like you’d like to adopt a granny.’ That’s it – a simple, precise statement. I look like I want to adopt a granny, do I? I mean, really? What the fuck are you talking about? What granny-adopting qualities characterise my appearance that other, presumable granny-hating, people don’t possess? You see, if they weren’t so fucking mindless and patronising, I might be inclined to donate some money - direct to the charity, though, obviously.

Everything

Whatever people mean by 'one of those weeks', I'm having one. There's nothing in particular, it just seems to be everything. Even normal things, like eating - I'm bored of dinner and the usual shit I cook. But I can't be bothered to do something else - that would require going to the shops and making decisions. I can't be fucked - I wish I could just take a pill that fills me up.

Every phone call at work, and home, for that matter, has me muttering 'oh fuck off' under my breath. Every caller's voice annoys me. I'm even getting pissed off with my own excessive internet usage at work and my lack of motivation for what I should be doing. And anyway - why can't I have a job I actually like? Why can't someone pay me to do things I actually enjoy?

Cycling - how can the roads be in such a fucking state? I feel like billing the council for a new set of wheels. It's not like we don't give them any money to maintain them is it? Bastards.

Excessive Politeness

There's a Big Issue seller on the high street who makes a point of catching your eye and asking, very loudly, 'Can I interest you in a Big Issue, Sir/Madam?'. This I don't mind. It's good, in fact, because I'm sure it scares people into buying it, and who am I to deny him a sale? It also allows me to say, with equal volume and lack of subtlety, 'No thanks mate', instead of feeling bad for seemingly ignoring him whilst muttering 'no thanks' under my breath, which is what I normally do. The problem is that he then says, rather too enthusiastically, 'Thank you anyway, have a lovely afternoon.' Why do I hate that? You might ask. He's only being nice. Well, first of all, he says it to everyone. And seeing as there are about four people per second walking past him, it means he's saying it all the time. 'Have a lovely afternoon, have a lovely afternoon, have a lovely afternoon...etc.etc.' Kind of dilutes the gesture a bit doesn't it?

Secondly, I actually don't think he's being nice at all. More than anyone I say 'no thanks' (or similar) to on the street, he strikes me as being the one who thinks, with the most venom, 'Thanks for nothing then, you cunt.' I don't trust him because his over-the-top politeness is just that little bit too much.

The second example is a lady at work who sends me emails occassionally, for mundane, everyday, part-of-my-job type requests. She's the sort of lady who seems very fragile - easily offended. Not in a bad way, necessarily, you just get the impression she's never had more than one and a half glasses of wine, has never sworn or had an angry thought. Not the sort you would expect to catch getting fucked in the stationary cupboard with a snooker ball in her mouth, let's just say.

Anyway - she always signs her emails off with "very many thanks and warmest regards" - no matter how small or mundane the request/topic. I'd hate to see what she says if I did something major for her like, I don't know...no, actually, I don't know. But fucking 'warmest regards'? That's the sort of shit I'm saving for if I ever have to thank someone for saving my child from a burning wreck of a plane, or something.

It's the same thing as with the Big Issue guy. In being excessively-polite she has in fact made me think she is covering something up and has actually succeeded in being slightly patronising and bloody annoying.

Having my hair cut

Six months after a grade four all over and it has come to the point where it's long enough to annoy me, but the weather isn't warm enough to make me think that shaving it all off is a good idea yet. So I make my annual pilgrimage to a haridressers. Barber shops don't really work for me because I don't want a grade two short back and sides and that is (I speak from experience) all they're really capabable of.

So I try and find a hardressers who are willing to cut 'long' hair, but aren't poncy enough to leave me with a trendy cut that requires 'products' to be used and leaves me looking like (more of) a cock. This is the first bit I hate - finding one. Once I've made the decision to go, I just want to go somewhere, have it cut, then go home. There is a half decent one in town that is a good balance of not quite barber shop, not quite haridressers, but it's not open. So I go to the next one down the road that is slightly poncy, but empty. 'You need an appointment' says the bored looking receptionist, who looks at me (as they all do) with those 'you're not quite trendy enough to be coming here anyway' eyes. Bitch.

So onwards and I eventually pluck up enough courage to go into a not-so-poncy looking one and am told I have to come back in an hour. Fine. One hour later I go back and have to wait 20 minutes before I am asked to take a seat. The next bit I really hate - looking in the mirror, telling them what I want done with it while they comb it and generally analyze its structure, thickness, colour etc. etc. I just don't like talking about how I 'want to look'. I don't 'want to look' like anything really - can't you just make it not look quite so stupid?

And, to be fair, he does. But not without the obligotary, strained conversation. 'You're quiet' he says, after 5 minutes of peaceful silence. Regular readers will know of my general dislike of 'People' and appreciate my desire to not have forced, aimless conversation. But he's asked me a direct question, so what do I say? 'Yes, I am quiet. It's because I don't really want to know if you had a good Christmas, what you did for New Year or how shit it is to be back at work. Can't you just cut my hair, take my money and let me fuck off?'