Chugg Off

On the occasional sunny days that Oldham offers me I like to wander into town to take my lunch. Despite walking through Oldham, it’s generally a pleasurable experience. I get to poke about in the market stall, ask the people in the pound stores how much everything is and if all that gets too much, I can sit on the one bench not covered in gum and bird shit just outside the court house and watch the comers and goers; this helps me feel smug and self satisfied about my middle class place in the world.

The main reason I cherish these days of splendour so much is that they’re so few and far between, so it was with joy in my heart when I trotted out of the office yesterday to spend 60 minutes of avoiding vomit, drunken maniacs and potty mouthed youths.

I walked up the high street not caring about the man with the lopsided beard asking me if I’d like to see his smelly bishop.

Then it happened. It loomed into view like a teacher coming into the class room as you’re mid white board graffiti. I froze. Mistake. They pounced on my weakness. It was a chugger. A charity mugger. They show no mercy.

For my American readers a chugger is one of those folks with a clip board full of pictures of puppies looking sad or children quietly sobbing. They wear a t-shirt for the charity they work for and generally some kooky accessories that make them look cool and worth talking to. They’re not, so don’t.

The conversation with a chugger usually goes like this.

“Hello Sir. You look like a generous kind of guy. My kind of guy. Your shoes are cooooool. Mind if I stop you for a minute to have a quick chat about my charity that helps middle aged women in Nantwich that have limited access to good Rioja?”
“Yes I do mind. Fuck off!”

Or rather I want to say that, but instead I just crumble like Cheshire cheese into a serving of meekness; ready for them to take advantage of. I mutter something along the lines of ‘no thank you, I don’t have time, please, I want to buy my lunch.’ But then they show me a picture of dying baby seals.

“See what happens when this 50 year old accountant’s assistant doesn’t have a nice glass of Bordeaux to help her through her meaningless existence? SEE WHAT HAPPENS?”
“YES, yes, I see. Please sobbing, please no more, take my money.”

And so I sign up and promptly cancel the direct debit. Promptly in this case meaning 4 months later, just in case they notice and send somebody round to my house with pictures of a shop selling kittens for drowning.

They’re masters at making you feel horribly guilty and that your life won’t be worth living unless you sign up to give £2 a month. Yet that feeling should be the other way round. Chuggers make £7 an hour for their part in this spreading of depression. That means that if you donate for a full year you’ll pay for a chugger to be on the streets for a full 3 ½ hours until a penny of your money goes to the charity.

This scam is just a transfer of money from your account to the account of another so they can stand about persuading people to keep the cycle going.

At this rate more people will be chuggers than aren’t and they’ll start fighting each other for your cash. Chuggers will climb down your chimney, claw at your windows. All the while saying could I just show you this?

So next time a chugger shows you their guilt book tell them you’ll consider their offer, and if, after consideration, you still want to donate, then you’ll access their website and donate there.

With enough of us doing it, maybe they’ll get the picture and chugg off.